


Who would notice me?

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A hell of a lot of arguing, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Bullying, Depression, Drug Use, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 78,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At high school, no one ever notices. To teachers and peers, if you are not popular, you are nothing but a blank face, making no difference to the lives of others. Sherlock is another of these people, until an unfortunate event turns out to be one of the best things that has ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fan fiction! I hope you enjoy this, and if not, at least enjoy me making a complete idiot out of myself!

The sun had been up for hours, creating an irritating ribbon of light across his face. John groaned and rolled over, finally having enough, to look at the clock. It was 10:30. With a muffled curse he pulled the duvet over his head. _It's not even 11 o’clock! What business does the sun have to be waking me up this early at the weekend?!_ He resolved to ignore it and go back to sleep seeing as the house was silent and he wouldn’t have anyone looking for him. Harry had been staying at Clara’s and his parents were at work. The familiar silence of the house lulled him back into a calm sleep.

-

The cold concrete had numbed half of his face and his muscles were stiff. _That’s what you get for passing out in an abandoned alleyway, you idiot._ By the looks of the sun it was about 11 o’clock and was going to be a nice enough day. Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position and leant against the nearest wall. Unable to remember why he had ended up unconscious in a completely random location, he replayed the previous afternoon. _The usual trip to school. Being avoided (nothing unusual there).Being sent out of Mrs Awlrights maths class, although it was her own fault for making her affair with the deputy head so blatantly obvious. Getting sent out of almost every other lesson. These people really need to learn how to hide their secrets if they don’t want the entire school to know them. Going to collect coat at the end of school. Walking past Anderson and_ \- _Oh_. Groaning, he slid down the wall, head in hands. Anderson. He had clearly still not forgiven him for telling his girlfriend he was cheating on her, but instead had taken the brutality of his retaliation to the next level. Sherlock now began to notice the huge, angry, purple bruises that had appeared all over his arms and he could feel similar ones on his back. He was sure he had at least one black eye too, not to mention being severely concussed. He heaved himself to a standing position, regretting it immediately as white lights began to pop in front of his eyes and all of the pain came back in one huge wave. His knees buckled and he found himself on the ground again, fighting to stay conscious.

This was going to take a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stumbles across a stranger in an alleyway. Strange is definitely the best way to describe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written entirely from Johns POV

His alarm cut through the silence of the house like a gun shot. John jumped out of bed, only to get a foot caught in the quilt and land sprawled across the floor with a thump. He was always awake before his alarm; he was going to be late for work! Quickly pulling on some clothes and an apron (which served as his uniform) he sprinted down the stairs and out of the front door, not having time to get anything to eat. The nearest station was only about ten minutes’ walk away, but it was closed for repairs, so he would be forced to go to next one, which usually took well over half an hour to reach. Rushing down the road, he turned the corner and ran straight into someone, spilling the shopping they had been carrying all over the pavement.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he gasped, clutching at the stitch in his side.

The woman just glared at him and proceeded to gather everything back up so John knelt down and helped, anxious to get away. Fifteen minutes later he was running again, although there wasn't really much point as he was horrifically late already. He wasn't very familiar with this particular part of London so the buildings around him created a labyrinth and he found himself at the end of a dark alley, which stretched away in front of him into complete darkness. He was pretty sure he shouldn't go that way, but it seemed like a shortcut to the station, so he began to run through.

Near the middle of the path, however, he slowed to a walk as he spotted a figure hunched against the wall, head in hands. _Perfect,_ he cursed to himself _now I’m probably going to get mugged. It would be better to turn up late to work than not turn up at all._ But as he neared the figure, he saw that they were in no fit state to attack him. Bruises littered what skin was showing and his hair was sticking to his head due to what looked to be like a large gash stretching across his forehead, steadily oozing blood. He could hardly have been older than John himself. Despite his earlier assumptions, John couldn't just leave him there- _who knows what could happen to him_. Plus, as he wanted to train as a doctor, this would be the perfect time to practice.

Kneeling down, John gently nudged his shoulder. No response. He nudged him again. Still no response. _Jesus, what have I gotten myself into?_

“Hey!” John said, while nudging the figure a third time.

This seemed to trigger the stranger, who sprang away from Johns touch instantly, head snapping round and eyes wide in panic.

Despite the darkness, John could clearly see his eyes, seemingly glowing blue, surveying John with apparent interest.

“Are you alright? You weren't responding.” John explained, now feeling slightly awkward as he was surveyed.

The boy shook his head as if to clear it and rubbed his eyes, momentarily sending the alleyway back into darkness.

“I’m fine. It’s no concern of yours, and you should really get going if you don’t want to any later for work than you already are,” the stranger replied offhandedly, voice surprisingly deep for someone of his apparent age.

John blinked a few times in surprise. _What? How does_ _this boy, who I've never even seen before, know that?_

He had apparently voiced these thoughts, as the stranger continued.

“Oh come on, it’s not that surprising. You were running down this alleyway, which everyone usually avoids at all costs due to the fact there have been several people attacked here, so you were looking for a shortcut. You clearly dressed in a hurry, including forgetting to tie your shoelaces, even though you were running. Plus, why would you ever wear an apron like that for no reason?” he huffed, crossing his arms across his chest and wincing slightly at the movement.

John was taken-aback at this and slumped to the ground to sit properly next the stranger, who cast him a confused glance, shuffled away and continued,

“So really, there is no point in making yourself later than you already are. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I've got places to be.”

With that, he made to get up and walk off, but swayed on the spot when he stood up and began to list severely to the left. John, who had recovered slightly from his surprise, leapt up and caught him before steadying him, hands on the taller boys’ shoulders.

“I think you’ll find that if I really cared enough about work to leave you here to bleed to death, I would have ignored you and carried on,” John calmly replied “and I’m not letting you walk off like this. You look awful.”

He’d said those last words before he could stop himself and blushed furiously.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, hanging his head, setting the stranger against the wall so he wouldn't fall over and releasing his shoulders.

Although he couldn't see him, he could feel the boys’ eyes boring into his skull. They remained like this for a few awkward moments before John said something. He looked up and the boys head snapped away, clearly not wanting to be caught staring.

“At least let me call someone for you. I really can’t leave you like this, and I’m not going to let you walk off alone.”

Anger flashed briefly across the taller boys pale face, quickly replaced by annoyance.

“Fine. Call my brother,” He hissed, grabbing his phone out of his pocket and holding it out to John.

“Password?” John asked, taking the phone.

“Asphyxiation,” was the short reply. John allowed himself an amused smile at this. _Different_. “Just text him, it’ll be quicker.”

John scrolled through the contacts, clicked on the one labelled 'pathetic excuse for a brother' and quickly typed out their location, explained the situation before handing back the phone. Leaning against the wall opposite, they stood in silence for a while before the click of shoes could be heard approaching them, accompanied by an annoyed huff from the stranger. Taking this as meaning his brother had arrived, and wanting to avoid awkward conversation, John smiled and waved goodbye before rushing off in the opposite direction.

It only occurred to him when he reached work an hour later that he'd never asked the stranger his name or how he'd been able to notice those things about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll be writing from Sherlocks POV next and alternating for each chapter from now on. If there are any mistakes or if you have any tips, feel free to say so! Thanks again, will post as often as I can. Comments are welcome, good or bad. Thanks again! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I meant to update earlier this week but was on a DofE practice expedition. Will be adding a few chapters soon to make up for it.

With each click of the shoes, Sherlock gave an almost unnoticeable wince. His head was still throbbing but he could now stand up without much of a problem- the other teenager had seen to that. He'd run off as soon as Mycroft appeared and Sherlock couldn’t blame him as he would have done the same if he was able to move without collapsing. His brother had now reached him and was leaning on that umbrella he had taken to carrying around for no reason and was wearing an exasperated expression on his face.

“Really, Sherlock,” he sighed “You should have known better than to let this happen again. You're lucky that there was someone around to help this time.”

He left a gap and stared slightly, waiting for his younger brother recount the event. When no answer came, however, Mycroft sighed again and helped support his brother to the car waiting for them. Normally, he would have never let his brother help him, but he was too weak to make it away on his own.

Once in the car, he collapsed onto the back seats and shut his eyes. The lights flashing in front of them were making his headache worse. He heard Mycroft take the seat opposite and the car pulled away, the silence continuing until it was beginning to crush Mycroft with unanswered questions.

“So are you going to tell me what happened? I may be able to see a lot of things, but I can’t read your mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. _Trust Mycroft to stick his nose in_.

Deciding he clearly couldn’t avoid this question forever, he pulled himself into a sitting position and glared at his brother.

“I am perfectly aware you can’t read minds and it doesn’t matter what happened. Not to you anyway.”

With this, he leaned against the cold window and closed his eyes again. He couldn’t talk about this now. But Mycroft pressed on.

“I really need to know what happened; I don’t care if you don’t want to tell me. How am I supposed to come up with a suitable lie for our parents if I don’t know myself?”

Sherlock could hear the sneer in his voice and groaned. He hadn’t thought about his parents.

“Anderson,” he mumbled into the window.

“I’m sorry?”

“It was Anderson!” he almost shouted, turning to face his brother with more force than intended, making his head spin again.

Mycroft shook his head and turned to stare out of the window. Sherlock could clearly see the disappointment written all over his face which he was trying to unsuccessfully hide, and it hurt him more than he thought it could.

“You really need to keep away from him, Sherlock. This isn’t the first time and I thought you would have learned!” he turned back to face his younger brother “You need to stop this. Don’t provoke him and just ignore him.”

Sherlock saw red.

“It’s kind of hard to ignore him when he is trying to kick my head in!” he shouted.

“But it was you who provoked him! This is how it always happens! You make some snide comment and end up unconscious in some remote part of London!” Mycroft shouted back, rage breaking through his usually calm demeanour before he composed himself and continued at normal volume “I do worry about you. You always end up making the wrong decisions and anything could happen. You have no one to look out for you but me because you drive them all away. I don’t understand you sometimes.”

He wasn’t even trying to hide the disappointment this time and Sherlock could feel tears stinging his eyes. _No! Don’t cry, you never cry-and especially at nothing Mycroft has to say._ He sniffed loudly and his head drooped.

Mycroft was right, as always.

Correctly sensing the effect his words had had on his brother, Mycroft reached out a consoling hand, but drew it back at the last moment. Sherlock hated to be touched, even at the best of times-and this certainly wasn’t one.

“Do you want to go back to my house to clean yourself up?” Mycroft continued softly, changing the subject “I don’t want our parents to see you like this. You know what they would do.”

“No, I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

At this, Sherlock just raised his ice-cold gaze to his brothers face and Mycroft turned away.

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this was alright! Feel free to leave any tips, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the really short chapter, but figured I might as well upload seeing as its finished. Enjoy!

The weekend had passed by too quickly for John. One moment he had been celebrating his two days of freedom arriving again and the next he was trudging wearily through the school gates, stifling a yawn. He'd run into a group of friends and gone for a walk last night. Well… walk wasn’t really the right word. More like a drunken stumble (not that it had been him doing the drinking). Greg had even fallen into a bin and it had taken forever to get him out.

The school bell sliced through the misty morning air and he headed off to his first class. It being his final year at high school, he really needed to focus if he wanted to get into a good college.

-

The dull biology lesson had seemed to drag on for years, with Mr Kennan rambling on about something to do with enzymes and failing to notice that half his class was asleep or on their way to it. John feared he would have joined them if Molly hadn't been so twitchy all lesson. She sat next to him and had constantly been fiddling with what looked like an envelope, blushing every time John asked her what it was. She was a nice girl, but she really could annoy the hell out of him sometimes. When the bell had rung- and while everyone was busy trying to wake themselves up- John had raced out of the classroom and to the library to get some revision done. He had a chemistry exam coming up soon.

-

Entering the library, it was still fairly quiet, empty desks and computers littered between the towering bookcases. John picked a secluded corner furthest from the door and took out his textbook. He didn’t notice the tall teen walking his way until said teen had passed by, mumbling something about the fact John had taken his usual desk. Johns head snapped up as he spotted familiar blue eyes. It appeared that the stranger recognised him to, because his face went slightly red, eyes wide as he hurried off around the next bookcase. John sprang up from the desk and ran after him; just in time to the other disappear through the exit. How had he never noticed the boy before? He was recognisable, with his superior height, icy blue eyes and mop of curly black hair, but John was sure he had never seen him before. Strange as the event was, John didn’t want to chase him-he had only wanted to check he was alright, but if he was at school he must have been-so he shuffled back to his desk to reluctantly continue with his revision, willing himself to put the mysterious teen out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll! I might upload the next chapter in a bit if it I finish it. If not though, it will definitely be up soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter, wanted to include Molly, so here we are! I promise they will meet properly soon, I promise!

Sherlock raced through the corridors and away from the library. _What is he doing here? How is it possible we both go to the same school?_

He slowed when he was nearing his locker as he could hear no one running after him. _Try to be calm about this. The worst that could happen is he looks for you; he probably just wants to check up on you. But then he will ask what happened, what you were doing there…_  

His thoughts raced unchecked through his head and he sank to the floor, leaning back against his locker. The corridor was empty so nobody would bother him. These thoughts were pushed aside, however, as he noticed the uneven door of his locker. It had been opened.

“Probably someone putting acid in there again, trying to be clever,” he muttered, standing to open it-but instead of acid, an envelope fluttered out and landed at his feet.

Cautiously bending down to pick it up, he turned it over in his hands. Nothing suspicious about it. Just an ordinary envelope. But why? The colour and penmanship on the envelope clearly stated it as from a girl and the careful way his name had been written on the front implied it meant a great deal to them. There were only really two options: it was a love letter or something along those lines (which he had never received, so he wouldn’t really know anyway) or someone’s practical joke they'd been planning for so long they didn’t want it to go wrong, so had carried it out with extra care. He highly suspected the latter. Carefully prising it open, however, he was surprised. It was indeed some kind of love letter.

It read:

_Hi Sherlock!_

_You've probably never noticed me, but I just wanted to write you this anyway. We had a few lessons together last year and I really liked you- even when you insulted the teachers. It was quite funny and some of them deserved it. I guess._

_You always seemed so above it all, all the rumours about you I mean. I never believed any of them. I actually tried to stop a few, but I think I made it worse. Sorry._

_Anyway, I just wanted to say that I like you, and that not everyone hates you. I noticed you seemed a bit upset last Monday in the library, when you thought no one was watching it almost looked like you were going to cry. My dad’s a bit like that, when he thinks nobody is looking he looks sad, so I know how to notice it. Oh god, sorry! I’m comparing you to my dad! Whoops. But just don’t be sad. I don’t like seeing you sad, it makes you look more vulnerable, and I never want to think of you like that. Whatever it is, it will pass at some point._

_I hope you're alright now._

_I know you will probably figure out who gave you this, but if you do, please don’t mention this to anyone. It would be awkward. So anyway, good luck in your exams (not that you really need it) and I hope you are happier soon!_

_MH x_

_PS- if you do figure this out, do you want to get coffee? I did mention I liked you ;)_

Sherlock lowered the letter. The message, although awkward and a bit confusing, had cheered him up slightly. At least he had one person on his side. However, the identity of this person was annoying him slightly. The only MH he knew was his brother, and that would be disturbing. He took out his phone and with a few quick clicks had hacked into the schools database. Skipping to the register folders, he located his year group and typed in the initials. Only one name came up.

Molly Hooper.

The name did ring a bell. She had been the small, fidgety girl in most of his science classes. He had moved up to study 6th form science now, so would obviously be in none of her classes this year. Quickly deciding against ever bringing this up and inwardly declining the offer of coffee, he thought back to last Monday. He had been upset because of the fact he had been chased from his local library by a gang of boys from his year group over the weekend and had ended up dislocating his shoulder. His family had yet again blamed him for their actions, again told him that he had provoked them and that he should know better. He could deal with all sorts of comments and worse from his peers, but when it was his own family doing the criticizing, he couldn’t cope with it as well. Making a quick mental note to hide his emotions better in public, he hurried to his next class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another chapter down! I will update as often as possible, but I have a lot of coursework to do at the moment, so there might end up being large gaps between each update. Sorry in advance. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, but might as well update when I can

The week passed quickly and before he knew it it was Friday again. Throughout the week, John had been unable to get the other teen out of his mind and had suffered because of it-Miss Volt had given him an afterschool detention when she thought he wasn’t paying attention and had ended up having to hit him around the head with a textbook to get him to focus. Try as he might however, he couldn’t stop thinking about him. It hadn’t really helped that, now he had noticed him once, they were running into each other everywhere. Between classes, at the school gates, in the library: John would spot him everywhere. He had the distinct impression, however, that the other teen was trying to avoid him. Once, upon entering the canteen, he had spotted him tipping his entire uneaten meal into the bin before making his escape.

_Odd._

_-_

That afternoon, John was again sitting in Mr Kennans biology class, head threatening to hit the desk at any moment, when a sudden slam of a door echoed across the room. Shouting exploded from the classroom on the other side of the corridor- _Mr Norfolks class? Definitely the other biology teacher-_ and a familiar figure stormed out of the open door and down the hall. From his seat by the door, John clearly saw him head in the direction of the headmasters office.

“Class! Please get back to your work! We have no time to be staring after some random troublemaker, God knows there are enough of them at this school,” Mr Kennan yelled from the front of the classroom, clearly peeved at the fact that this event had captured everyone’s attention, when he could never hold it for more than 10 seconds.

John begrudgingly turned back to his textbook, wondering what the hell had gone wrong this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE THEY WILL MEET SOON, LIKE REALLY SOON, I PROMISE!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance. I hate this chapter and am beginning to seriously question my skill as an author. But have it anyway!

After nearly two hours of being shouted at by the head, the door slammed again behind him. _It was hardly my fault that idiotic teacher wasn’t hiding the fact he had been failing his diet!_ The head had had enough of this and had threatened to move him back down to study Year 11 biology again, but he never followed through on any of his threats. However, he had phoned his parents to report the incident. Sherlock had hoped that his parents would have gotten used to his outbursts by now but by the shouting from the other end of the phone, they clearly hadn’t.

Trudging back to his locker, the corridors now long empty seeing as school had finished a while ago, he reflected on what had happened last time the school had phoned his parents. It had taken almost a month for them to put it behind them, and during that time, they had abandoned him. He had been fortunate enough to have Mycroft to stay with, but with Mycroft soon moving to the other side of London, he didn't know what he was going to do this time. Maybe if he had had friends, he could have stayed with them.

-

He made the long walk home particularly slow. He could have easily gotten the train and been home within ten minutes, but he needed to think and was in no hurry to face his parents. His long coat billowed around his knees as he walked, the cold wind biting at his face. It may have been March, but it was still surprisingly chilly. His route took him past various coffee shops and he thought back on Molly’s note. A small smile crept across his face and he nipped into one of the closest shops, skilfully ignoring the stares and whispers of a band of girls seated by the window. As he was waiting for his coffee, one approached him. _In first year of college, an only child, doesn’t live in this area of London, been through six boyfriends in the past two months._

“Hi,” she said lightly, staring up at him from under her eyelashes.

He ignored her, but this didn’t put her off.

“Is that coffee to go, or are you staying? We could talk.”

He continued to ignore her so she gave an annoyed roll of her eyes and grabbed a nearby napkin, quickly scribbling down her number. She turned to him and slid the napkin into his top coat pocket. She was a head shorter than him so almost had to stand on tiptoe, and then gave the expected ‘Call me.’

“Is this how you picked up your last six? Because I fail to see what was so intriguing about you,” Sherlock noted calmly, relishing the look of shock that spread across her face.

The gaggle of girls she had been sitting with had clearly overheard him and began whispering hurriedly with the occasional glare. Sherlock picked up his coffee and swept past; out of the shop before anything more could be said. The familiar satisfaction of getting it right spread through him and he again allowed himself a tight smile. _At least he would have something positive to look back on today._

_-_

He reached the door of his house an hour later, having been forced to take a detour when he had spotted a gang who had chased him last Friday. The streetlamps were just beginning to light up as night crept in and the lights were on inside. His parents would be sitting in his father’s study, as they always were when this happened. The conversation would start calm but would no doubt escalate into a shouting match until someone gave up. Or was forced to. He took a deep breath and, unlocking the door, stepped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was alright. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you they'd meet soon! Hope it isn't too rubbish!

John was relieved to get back to school on Monday. Harry had been out on a pub crawl with her girlfriend and a few others and had disappeared. He had spent the entire two days searching for her and had eventually found her passed out in a bush on the other side of London. She had been alright; it had just put his parents in a bad mood and had prevented him from doing some essential homework.

Usually, he would have been dreading having biology first. Due to his hectic weekend he would have fallen asleep for definite, but when he entered Mr Kennans classroom, he was surprised to see a familiar figure standing at the front, with an almost comic expression of pure hatred mixed with extreme awkwardness. He had wrapped his long arms around his torso and was shuffling his feet, avoiding the glares sent his way. John reluctantly made his way to his desk and continued to stare. _What is he doing here?_

“Right, class,” Mr Kennan announced, making the awkward teen wince “We have a new member joining us. He was moved here from studying 6th form biology so will need to copy up someone’s notes and explain how we run this class.”

He cast his gaze around the room, looking for a volunteer. When none came forward, he sighed and his eyes landed on John.

“Mr Watson! You usually pay attention. I will need you to team up with our new member so move to the empty desk at the back please. You can spend this lesson and the next few going through everything together.”

But John wasn’t listening. He was staring at the taller teen, who was now staring back at him with a look of pure horror on his face. _Why? I’ve never done anything to him!_ But he put these thoughts aside and quickly headed to the back.

The lesson started and, as usual, almost the entire class was asleep within ten minutes. John kept glancing at the boy next to him, who was now staring at the desk, eyes wide. He looked a little like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Nearly halfway through the lesson, John had had enough.

“Hi! I’m John Watson,” he said brightly, offering his hand. _Better to pretend nothing had ever happened._

He waited a few seconds while his words seemed to sink in. The boy glanced up at him and feebly shook his hand.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled and dropped his gaze back to the desk.

“Sorry?”

“It’s my name,” the boy sighed, clearly a bit embarrassed.

“Oh.” _Strange._

“Yes, I know it’s strange,” Sherlock huffed, seemingly reading his thoughts again and crossing his arms.

“No! It’s a nice name,” John replied. He quickly realised what he had said and blushed slightly “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound odd. You just looked a bit…”

He trailed off as Sherlock’s gaze met his. They were the same eyes he had seen in the alleyway, but something was different. More subdued.

“So can we get on with this then? I’ve learnt it all already, but if I have to copy up notes, I’d rather get it done sooner than later.”

The rest of the lesson passed in awkward silence, John occasionally correcting Sherlock’s notes, which he had ended up copying down wrong several times due to Johns awful handwriting. However, five minutes from the bell, Sherlock turned to collect his bag, exposing the right side of his face. John’s breath caught in his throat as he noticed a red welt stretching across Sherlock’s jaw. It wouldn’t have been very noticeable to anyone far away, but sitting so close, it was hard for him to miss. He didn’t want to be caught staring so quickly turned to pack his things away. _What happened?_ It had barely been two weeks since John had found him in that alleyway and he had already had something else happen. He didn’t want to pry, but his questions were beginning to burn him up from the inside, so he was grateful when the bell rung and Sherlock shot out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I hope this was an okay first-ish meeting. More will happen, promise.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April fools! I guess. Enjoy this chapter if you can.

_Why?_   The word buzzed endlessly around Sherlock’s head, mocking him. _Why him?_  

Sherlock wasn’t really a self-conscious person and usually didn't care what others thought of him, but John made him feel vulnerable. He had seen him at one of his lowest points, something nobody else ever had, and it worried him. _What if he tells someone? Like the school? My parents would never let me hear the end of it!_ He didn’t know what Mycroft had told them, but they didn’t know what had happened. The thought of his parents made his jaw sting slightly again and he pulled the collar of his blazer up. He pushed his way quickly through the crowds to the library where he took up his space at the secluded desk near the back. A few minutes passed, his head buried in a chemical engineering book, when he heard careful footsteps approaching him. He glanced up and, as he had suspected, John was standing there, looking nervous. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, hiding his uneasiness.  _Might as well deal with this now. Better late than never._

“Listen,” John stuttered “I don’t know what I’ve done wrong; I was only trying to help. You seem a bit annoyed at me or something. You’ve been avoiding me,”

Some of the shock must have shown on Sherlock’s face, because John just rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I’ve noticed. But I just wanted to say that I won’t say anything. I know what it’s like to have things you don’t want people finding out about and I’m guessing that's what this is about.”

John went slightly red and rocked back on his heels. He was obviously finding this just as uncomfortable as Sherlock was. Clearly neither of them were really the types to talk about their emotions to others. Sherlock saw an opportunity. He still didn’t trust John- the last time he had trusted someone it had ended horribly- so he would strike up a bargain.

“If you don’t tell anyone about that… incident,” Sherlock said calmly “then I won’t tell anyone about your sister.”

The familiar shock registered on Johns face but there was no satisfaction for Sherlock this time. He could see John trying to decide on the best action to take. This usually involved either punching his head in right now, or waiting until later to take action. He finally seemed to reach a decision.

“How… What…” John trailed off, looking at Sherlock with barely concealed awe.

This threw him slightly. Nobody had  **ever** asked him about his talent, even in such a fragmented way. They usually just thought ‘stalker’ and attacked.

“It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock replied, gaining confidence “You were texting in biology and your phone has scratches around the charger socket, so probably an alcohol problem. When trying to plug the phone in the socket has been missed over and over again, so the user was drunk. You and your band of friends passed by my house on your ‘walk’ and you were the only one there who was sober, so someone gave it to you. But who would give you a phone that expensive? A family member or significant other. The last can be cancelled out because you are only in year 11 and who has enough money to pay for a phone like that simply for a high school relationship? So family. There are chips of nail varnish around the power button which you have been unable to get off, so probably sister as you wouldn’t really take your mums phone. Your sister has a drinking problem and you don’t want anyone to know about it-because why would you?”

Awed silence followed his small speech and John looked amazed.

“That was amazing!” he gushed, finally gaining the ability to speak again “A bit creepy, I guess, but still amazing!”

Sherlock shot a quick smile his way, but it didn’t show half the emotional avalanche currently taking place. _Someone thinks my talent is amazing_.

This had never happened, even with his family. Maybe John really wasn’t that bad. Suddenly, seemingly remembering Sherlock’s proposal of a deal, John offered his hand again for the second time that day.

“Alright, I can deal with that,” John grinned.

They shook on it just as the bell went. John walked off, still smiling, leaving Sherlock slightly confused, but the happiest he had been for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you hear that? It's the sound of my writing ability dying. It will get better, promise!
> 
> (August 2015 edit: Like honestly, it gets better, please stick with it)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderson! So much Anderson!

After school, John decided to take the long way home. It was cold, but he had no particular desire to head home and find Harry drunk. He was in no doubt that that was what would happen. She had been getting worse for a while now, but when she split up with her girlfriend, it had been the last straw. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice someone walking towards him. They pushed past him, knocking his bag to the floor and blocking his way. John looked up, a particularly unflattering comment about to roll off his tongue, but he stopped it quickly. This other boy was towering over him, glaring down at him. He had look of someone with a bit too much empty space between their ears.

“Hi John,” he spoke smoothly, a nasty sneer paying at his mouth.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” John asked, confused.

“Phil Anderson. We’re in the same maths class.”

_Oh. That thick kid who enjoys beating people up because it makes him feel superior._

“Oh! I know you, yes,” John stuttered, taking a step back.

He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of this guy.

“I saw you in the library today.”

John seriously doubted this. He looked like he'd never entered a library in his life.

“You were talking to the freak.”

John was speechless. _Sherlock? No._

“You mean Sherlock?”

Anderson visibly bristled at the mention of Sherlock and a dark expression crossed his face, doing very little to improve John’s view of him.

“Yeah, the freak,” Anderson continued, the sneer now long gone, and a murderous expression replacing it “and it would do you good to stay away from him.”

John had never taken well to threats, and this idiot was no different, despite the threat he posed.

“And why is that?” John almost growled.

Anderson didn’t look taken-aback by Johns tone at all, but carried on.

“He isn’t exactly the most… acceptable company to keep. He tends to find himself in the middle of incidents he can’t handle.”

Anderson had been continuously clenching his fists while he said this and John put two and two together.

“It was you?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Anderson suddenly seemed to snap, now looking at John with the most concentrated hatred he had ever seen. _If looks could kill..._

He bent down and hissed at John,

“If you ever tell another living soul about that, especially another member of this school, then you will end up the same way.”

To illustrate his point, he cracked his knuckles menacingly, but John couldn’t contain himself.

“That’s an empty threat. If I tell anyone, you won’t be able to.” John regretted it the second the words were out of his mouth.

He hadn’t even known Sherlock’s name until that day! Why was he suddenly sticking up for him and putting himself in the line of fire?

Anderson let out a hollow laugh and stared John in the eyes.

“You should ask him what happened when he said the same thing.”

Before John could react, Anderson had thrown a powerful punch at his stomach. He staggered backwards, doubled over in pain, and fell to the ground. Anderson laughed before hissing,

“Just take my advice and stay away from the freak.”

He then skulked off, giving John a swift kick to the shin on his way past.

John lay there for a few moments, stunned. What had Sherlock done to earn him this sort of treatment? He heard hurried footsteps behind him and someone grabbed at his arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Are you alright John?”

It was Molly. He was relieved to see a friendly face.

“I’m fine,” he muttered back.

It looked like she was going to ask more, but he quickly interrupted her.

“Hey, we’ve got that English project due in soon haven’t we? Do you want to go round to mine and make a start on it?”

Molly smiled, a hint of suspicion on her face, before agreeing and they walked off together, Johns head still burning with questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to stop apologizing for these awful chapters, but bear in mind that I am deeply sorry. THANKS FOR READING :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this is quite a long chapter really, considering the others. Yay! I'm relatively proud of this one, so enjoy!

The door slammed behind him, the force of it sending him flying onto the pavement, hitting his head hard on the concrete. The familiar feeling of dizziness receded after a few minutes and he was left lying in the dark street, breath forming cold clouds in front of him. A nearby streetlamp cast an eerie glow on the large, neat houses surrounding him. His backpack had fallen a few feet away, but for now he was in too much shock to retrieve it. _It won’t get stolen, so it doesn’t matter._ He had never wanted this to happen. Despite the constant criticism and overall hatred towards shown him from his parents, he had never thought they would actually just throw him out. He had finally had enough that day, and that was what had caused it. He had only been late home! That was no reason to hit him. Sherlock rubbed at the new mark appearing on his face, just below his eye. The one below his jaw had faded slightly now, but this one was still causing him extreme agony. _My eye will probably be swollen closed tomorrow, if I make it to then._ It had escalated into a shouting match a lot quicker today and he had found himself threatening to leave. His father, taking everything as literally as he always did, had told him to pack and ‘ **get the hell out of his house** ’. He had nowhere to go now. Mycroft had moved and he had no other relatives or friends to go to. He was alone.

Trudging through the middle of London in the dark wasn’t exactly the safest thing he could have chosen, but it was the easiest way to lose himself. He wanted to be swallowed up by these streets and forgotten by those who knew him. He would have to go to school at some point, but for now, he was content with just exploring. He passed by all-night cafes and the friendly lights and laughter spilling from the doors and windows were a sharp contrast to the darkness he was experiencing. He hurried down to the nearest Tube station and bought a ticket to get him to the furthest part of London he could get to. As the train pulled in and he hopped into an empty carriage, he was happy with the prospect of never going back. _If they ever want to find me or bring me back, I hope they are ready to be disappointed._

Getting off the train, however, these feelings began to quickly evaporate. Only now did he really register the enormity of his decision. He could never go back. His parents would never let him back. He had nowhere to live, no source of income to keep him afloat, no guaranteed safety at all. He pulled his phone out his pocket. There were 18 missed calls. Three from his father, two from his mother and thirteen from Mycroft.

“Care now, don’t they?” he muttered with a bitter smile.

Placing his phone back, he stopped outside the nearest pub to check through his things. He had another set of clothes, a spare pair of Converse, a wallet containing nearly £180 in cash and his cash card (so that was about £500 overall), his violin and a few other essentials. It wouldn’t be enough to get him anywhere to stay for a prolonged amount of time, but it could cope with it for a few weeks maybe.

Just then, the door to the pub burst open and a teenager staggered out. _Last year of college, hoping to go into a police or detective career, younger brother, was just dumped by girlfriend of three years._ The youth straightened up and turned to Sherlock, eyes slightly unforced, but he was still sober enough to be coherent. He was a little shorter than Sherlock, but was quite stocky and his hair was already beginning to grey.

“Hi! What are you doing out here so late?” he asked brightly, clearly trying to hide the pain in his voice.

“It’s none of your concern, so kindly leave me alone,” Sherlock replied coldly. He was in no mood to talk, not that he really ever was.

“Oh don’t be like that. I was just trying to be friendly!” he replied, looking hurt.

Normally, Sherlock would have made some scathing remark and left, but there was something about the youths expression and current situation that stopped him. He instead stood there, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m Greg Lestrade, nice to meet you,” he held out hand for Sherlock to take, and he shook it quickly

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, awaiting the usual response of strange it was.

Instead, Greg laughed and grinned at him. “Sherlock, eh? Strange, but it’s interesting at least. Try being stuck with a name like Greg.”

Greg laughed again and Sherlock decided he wasn’t very dangerous to be talking to and it wouldn’t do any harm carry on talking.

“So you never answered my question. What are you doing out here at this time? It’s hardly the best idea to be out at nearly one in the morning on a school night,” Coming from anyone else, that would have sounded very inappropriate, but Greg sounded like he was just trying to be helpful. Sherlock decide that there wasn’t much point I lying. He might be able to help him.

“I ran away from home. I don’t have anywhere to stay and was looking for somewhere,” Sherlock answered, shuffling his feet.

Greg pondered this for a moment, scratching his head and apparently un-phased at the fact he had run away from home. Finally, seemingly reaching a decision, he continued, “I know somewhere you could stay tonight, maybe. My mum is friends with this old woman who owns a café and she was looking for someone to rent a flat there. She’s nice and would try to help you.”

Relief flooded through him as the possibility of somewhere to stay was opened up to him. _This could work_. He quickly told Greg how amazing that would be if he would help him and Greg just carried on smiling, said he was just happy to help and they headed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg has finally made an official appearance! Good for him. Hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter I have written! Hurrah! A few characters make an appearance here, so that's good to :)

John was worried, and not just about Harry. Sherlock hadn’t showed up at school for a week, as far as he knew. He hadn’t turned up for any biology lessons, was never in the library and when he asked Molly, she said she hadn’t seen him either. He hadn’t really expected to miss the taller teen as much as he had. They had barley talked, but he had felt an almost crippling sense of loneliness at the empty space now occupying Sherlock’s chair. Molly had seemed quite jittery as well, even though John was pretty sure she had never spoken to him. He didn’t really seem like the kind of person to regularly engage in conversation with anyone. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, and if they had, they didn’t care. Mr Kennan never asked anyone where he was and when John had asked at the school office that afternoon, they had had no information either. _Something awful could have happened to him!_ When the final bell rung that Friday, he left the classroom only come face to face with Anderson. He had been trying to avoid them coming into any contact at all, but by the resolved look on Andersons face, he clearly hadn’t been.

“John, nice to see you again,” The malicious gleam in his eye suggested anything but “Remember how I warned you about getting involved?”

“Of course I do! And I’ve got the bloody bruise to prove it,” John was determined not to back down from this, Anderson really tended to rub him up the wrong way.

Anderson just smiled at this comment and continued “Well, you ignored me didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. “

“Yes, you did. You were asking after him today. At the office?”

_Shit._

Anderson seemed to notice the panic this caused John and sniggered. “I noticed. But, we’re in the hallway, so I’ll let you off for today.”

John took this as his queue to leave and, not particularly wanting to end up mashed to a bloody pulp, he rushed away.

-

 

That Saturday afternoon, he again was on his way to work. He had made sure to get up before his alarm so he wasn’t late again. His boss hadn’t been too happy, but when he had explained the situation, she had let it go. The cold wind cut through his thin coat and he shivered. The sun was obscured by patchy, dark grey clouds and a storm was moving in. John pulled his coat tighter at the thought walked a bit faster. His route took him past several parks where, despite the weather, a handful of dog walkers and children were messing about on the grass. John smiled and waved at his friend Greg, spotting him taking his husky, Iris, for a walk. He would probably be seeing a lot more of Greg now, John thought to himself, he had broken up with his girlfriend and needed the support. Johns mind wandered back to when he had broken up with his last girlfriend, Sarah, earlier that year. _God, that was awful._ Greg had tried to cheer him up by taking him out for a drink, forgetting John was still only in year 11. He had instead gotten drunk himself and they had spent the next three hours in the pouring rain trying to find a taxi that would take them. In the end, the pub owner had taken pity on them and offered to drive them home. Now the tables had turned, but Greg would no doubt end up going down the same path. Lost in his memories, John didn’t realise he had made it to work and was standing aimlessly outside the small café. He stepped inside the familiar shop and the soft chime of the bell at the door brought him fully back to reality. There were hurried footsteps from the corridor behind the counter and the door opened.

“Oh! John, you’re early today, hoping to make it up for last time?” Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at him and gestured for him to come over. He pulled off his coat and hung it behind the counter, before going to see what she had to say.

“I’ve got to go out, if that’s alright. I have to visit Greg’s mum. You know him don’t you?” John nodded, “Well, yes, we haven’t seen each other in a while so I was going for a catch-up. Could you look after the shop until then?”

She had always been the nicest of people to work for, so John agreed without really thinking. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder before bustling back to her flat, just behind the shop. John was perfectly happy to look after the café, really, he still had that English project to finish and it wasn’t particularly busy today, so he could just get on with that.

He worked quietly for the next hour or two, stopping occasionally when a customer would appear out of the now torrential downpour occurring outside. After a while, at about 3 o’clock, the door burst open to reveal the usual girl group. They were always in on a Saturday, probably just for a gossip and a nice place to sit, but John suspected it was also something to do with him. Mrs Hudson had said that before he had arrived, she had never seen them before and they never cam any other day or time. John knew a few of their names; there was Irene, who usually was just happy to chat to him if she was a bit bored and was actually quite a good conversation partner. She was beautiful, but he had heard them a few weeks ago talking about her new girlfriend. Then there was Mary, she was his age and went to the private girls school down the road from his house, and her friend Sally. Both of them could be interesting enough and occasionally approached him for a gossip. Sally could be a bit pushy and rude, but Molly was actually a very considerate person who John would happily talk to for hours before she was dragged out of the shop by her other friends. He didn’t really know the other four or so, but they all knew his name and he couldn’t help but feel at a slight disadvantage. Today was going to be one of those days when it would be Sally and Mary approaching him. They ordered their usual, and while the others went to the table by the window, Sally and Mary took seats at the counter and stated chatting about schoolwork and college. Mary pointed out a few mistakes on his English work and helped him correct them while Sally rambled on about how she was going to do work experience with her mum in a few weeks.

“She works at NSY,” Sally announced happily, “I’m hoping to study criminology at college, but I’ll need top grades for that and a lot of people are hoping to do the same at the moment.”

This continued for a while until the sudden sound of a violin drifted down from the flat upstairs. _Mrs Hudson never mentioned about finding a tenant,_ John thought bitterly. He’d wanted to rent out the flat when he moved out and had been planning on asking after it today. Sally pulled a bit of a face at the noise.

“What the hell is that?” she grumbled, “It sounds like someone is strangling a cat and then hitting it against a wall.”

John completely disagreed; he actually thought it was quite nice. But clearly Sally didn’t, so he smiled

“Shall I go and ask them to stop it? I’ll tell them my customers have no appreciation for the arts,” he joked and headed for the stairs.

He had never really been into any of the flats unless Mrs Hudson needed help cleaning them. As far as he knew, she had been trying to find a tenant for that flat for well over a year and had been beginning to lose hope. The stairs creaked as he made his way up, creating an eerie feel to the place. Dust swirled around him at every movement and made him sneeze- rather loudly. The music suddenly came to a halt and John froze. _What if they see me? I'd have to get a pretty good excuse for being up here._ He stood there for a minute or two, his heart beating loudly enough to drown out the sound of his breathing, before it stated again and he relaxed. He took the final few stairs and found himself outside a faded black door, a lot like the one at the entrance to the flats. He raised his hand and knocked nervously on the door. The music stopped again and footsteps made their way towards him. The door swung open and John had to top himself smiling. Sherlock was standing before him, slightly dishevelled looking, but not dead in some random alleyway somewhere in the middle of London. A dark bruise stretched across his face just below his eye that looked painful, but that was the only damage John could see. They stood there for a while, staring at each other, both as puzzled as the other, before John spoke up.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

It was a weak statement, but it seemed to bring a little light into Sherlock’s eyes. John smiled up at him and went to continue, but was surprised when Sherlock replied with a shrug,

“I figured I’d see you at some point.”

John let out a slight laugh at this, making Sherlock go slightly red. _God, he really is awkward._

“Of course you did. I’m surprised you haven’t told me why I’m up here.”

It was meant as a joke, but Sherlock replied quickly “Your customers dislike like my violin playing and you came to ask me to shut up.”

John was stunned at this. It was a joke!

“God…” he muttered to himself, slightly too loudly

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Ignore me.” Sherlock stuttered and John saw the worry clearly displayed in his eyes.

“No, its fine. It’s just… I’ve never come across someone who can do that” John replied, trying to mend the conversation

Sherlock just continued to stand there, shuffling his feet and looking guiltily at the floor. _What could possibly have happened to cause him to act like this? It really is an amazing talent._ John suddenly heard the scraping of chairs from the café and the door opening. The girls were leaving. He was suddenly struck with an idea.

“Hey, why don’t you come down to the cafe and have a coffee? I brought my school stuff so it would give you a chance to catch up on all the biology notes.”

He didn’t want to be to direct, like asking why he hadn’t been at school or what he was doing here, so going for schoolwork was worth a try. Sherlock pondered this before nodding and going back inside the flat to get his stuff. John allowed himself a smile and ambled back down the stairs to the café.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! This actually didn't take me as long as some of the other chapters, but I'm fairly happy with it. Together at last! Please leave a comment as to what you'd like to see form here on in, the options are pretty open. PLEASE COMMENT. Please?


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a proper conversation! I'm not very good at writing dialogue, so good luck

When he had turned up at the flat with Greg, in the pouring rain and at nearly three o’clock in the morning, Mrs Hudson had been furious to say the least. She had threatened to phone Greg’s mother and tell her to collect him now. She had completely ignored Sherlock, who had shrunk into the shadows outside, hoping to avoid her wrath. Greg however, had pulled him inside and, while also dragging a shouting Mrs Hudson, had taken them both to her flat and set about making tea. Only then did she really acknowledge his existence. She had sent him a puzzled look before turning to Greg and asking what was going on. He had explained the details Sherlock had given him with extreme care, seeing as he still hadn’t know the reasons he had run away, but she wasn’t stupid. She managed to put two and two together and immediately began to fuss over him like a mother hen, saying that OF COURSE, he could stay there as long as he needed. Greg had flashed him a smile and left before Mrs Hudson could fulfil her earlier threats and he had been shown to the flat. It was nice, really, a bit dusty from the fact it hadn’t been used in a while, but he could cope.

He had felt so out of place that first night. Not knowing that part of London very well, he had felt helpless, but having spent the better part of that week exploring and getting to know his way around, it now felt like more of a home than his real one. Sitting in the café, though, staring into the depths of his coffee, some of that helplessness began to creep back. _What am I doing?_ Having finished copying up the schoolwork he had missed, the slight conversation had turned into a deafening silence. John was cleaning plates and whatever else behind the counter, occasionally glancing up when the silence became too unbearable. Finally John set whatever he was currently cleaning and sighed.

“So...”

Sherlock froze. _Conversation. Nope, can’t do that. I’m not one to socialise._

“What are you doing here? The flat was empty when I was last here,” Johns tone was easy but he could detect a hint of frustration beneath it.

“You wanted the flat,” Sherlock replied flatly

John’s serious expression gave way to an amused grin. “I don’t think I’ll ask about how you know this stuff,” he glanced up “But yes, I did.”

Sherlock felt slightly guilty, a not very familiar emotion and one which he particularly despised.

“I don’t really plan on staying for too long. Mrs Hudson is just taking care of me until Mycroft can find me somewhere acceptable to live, so you will still be able to rent the flat if you want.”

John thought this over for a moment before nodding. Relief flooded through Sherlock’s veins, calming him. But it wasn’t well timed as Johns next question brought up the matter of why he was there in the first place. He could feel beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead and the room was suddenly too small. He had to escape, had to get away from here-far away- but he was glued to his chair and couldn’t move an inch. Instead he was trapped under John’s steady gaze, knowing he couldn’t hold in the answer forever.

“Me,” he finally answered, but John raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting a better explanation. But he couldn’t give one. Ever.

“What, so you wanted to move out? Didn’t your parents disagree? Surely they’re worried about you,” John enquired, tipping his head to the left and looking a bit like an inquisitive puppy.

“Not… not exactly.”

Realisation dawned on Johns face. There were a few ways that could be taken, Sherlock guessed, but he had clearly stumbled upon the right answer. Worry painted his features and he took the seat opposite, leaning on the counter. Sherlock looked away.

“So they kicked you out? Or you ran away? Something along those lines?”

His silence answered everything. John now knew, and Sherlock was worried. He was one of the only five people who knew that now, three of which were his family, and the other being Mrs Hudson (who was the closest thing to a good family he had ever had). The silence continued for a few uncomfortable minutes until he turned back to face John. He now looked horrified, eyes wide and he was reacting as if he had just witnessed the single most inhumane thing ever to happen. _I don’t want pity. Don’t you dare pity me._

These thoughts must have registered on his face as John suddenly coughed and continued quietly,

“Why?”

“Is it really that hard to tell?” Sherlock snapped back. He had no idea where this sudden anger was coming from, but he couldn’t hold it back. John seemed able to read him like an open book, and-at that moment-he hated it.

John’s eyes flitted to the bruise below his eye and the one fading at his jaw. _It’s obvious_. He seemed to make the decision to say nothing more on the matter however, and plastered a smile across his alarmed features. _He’s trying to back away, forget this conversation_ , Sherlock thought bitterly and glared venomously at John, who flinched.

“Ok, you don’t want to talk about it. Please, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.”

This pacified him slightly and he leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee. A genuine smile suddenly lit Johns face and he looked as if he had just had the most amazing idea in the history of amazing ideas. _Great, here we go._

“That thing you do, you know, the one where you read people?” John stuttered, tripping over himself in his eagerness, “well, what else can you say about me? You’ve already talked about Harry, but what else?”

Sherlock was surprised, but quickly composed himself. That conversation had flipped quite abruptly, and to something he wasn’t expecting at that.

“You really want me to do that? Really?” Sherlock couldn’t hide the obvious happiness in his voice, despite however much he tried to retain his slightly angry demeanour.

“Yeah! It’s amazing! I’m sure you could just look at someone and tell them their life’s story.”

Sherlock thought about his for a moment. John hadn’t run when he had learned of one the worst points of his life, so maybe he could handle this.

He glanced up and quickly surveyed John, piecing together what he could see as well as what he already knew, before taking a deep breath.

“You aspire to be a doctor because you have a soft spot for the weak and helpless, like me, and want to help. You are taking all of your science GCSEs and are hoping to study medicine at college. You currently take tutoring lessons to help you achieve the necessary grades for this. Your mother and father support this decision, but your sister couldn't care less. Your father works as a GP and your mother is a nurse working in the same place, however, you don't get that much money coming in and are currently struggling slightly. Your sister dropped out of college because she wanted to spend more time with her girlfriend who rewarded this by dumping her-that is what triggered the drinking. You have a few friends although they tend to be outside of school and are generally older. You went out with Sarah Sawyer for almost a year but she dumped you just after Christmas. You aren’t over it. People generally like you and don’t bother you. You are accepted.”

Finishing with that wasn’t really the best thing he could have done, but he was satisfied with the effect the speech had had on John. He looked so overjoyed to have his live written out for him that it was as though he had no secrets and was happy with it.

“You really do have a talent.”

All of the awkwardness previously crowding around them evaporated in that instant. Sherlock gave a smile that lifted his spirits and banished all thoughts of his current predicament from his mind, before replying,

“Not really. I just say what I can see.”

John then proceeded to ask him to do the same for those passing the shop front and they happily whiled away the afternoon unraveling the lives of strangers, forgetting all their troubles for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this made me smile like an idiot. Hope you enjoyed it! PLEASE leave comments :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonhs POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg! I love Greg :)

“Oh for God’s sake, Greg. Grow up.”

John gave the older boy a swift kick to the foot which just resulted in Greg kicking weakly in his direction. John sighed and buried his head in his arms. They were in Greg’s living room at his flat, curtains drawn and empty bottles littering the floor around them. He hadn’t really taken the break up well and John had gone to visit. Big mistake. Greg was currently lying face down on the sofa, occasionally giving Iris’ head a rub. He had been trying to drink away his sorrows, but it hadn’t really worked out as he now had an almost permanent migraine which just made him feel worse. Just then, he reached down for his beer, but John kicked it away.

“I’ve got to deal with Harrys drinking all the time and I don’t particularly want to be dealing with your habit as well.”

This prompted a proper response and Greg glared up at him through bloodshot eyes.

“It’s not a ‘habit,’ John. It’s just how I deal with things.”

He then buried his face back in the sofa and began to sob uncontrollably. John placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. Amber had always been a bit controlling of Greg and he now had no idea what to do with himself.

“But you were coping! I saw you walking Iris the other day!”

At her name, the husky sat up and placed her head on Johns knee, who began to idly scratch her behind the ears.

“But that because I had to. She was getting restless and destroying the furniture.”

Clearly. When John had arrived, there had been feathers everywhere from where a cushion had been brutally murdered.

“Yeah, but surely if you can carry on looking after her, you can carry on looking after yourself and not be forced to rely on me.”

This was met by furious silence. He knew what was going to happen before it did and managed to duck before Greg swiped at his head. He instead ended up hitting the coffee table with a loud crash and, leaping up from the sofa, screeched

“Shit! What the hell John?!”

“It’s not my fault! You’re the one who attempted to clobber me around the head!”

Greg just sighed, nursing his hand, and signalled for John to follow him to the kitchen. Once there, he set about clumsily putting the kettle on while John checked his hand. The conversation managed to turn back to Amber, as it had every time they had talked on the phone since the breakup. After a particularly long rant about how she had dumped him- he’d accidentally brought her the wrong hair dye which had made her hair turn slightly green, which had apparently been the final straw- he went on to bring up a few new details.

“She even bloody commented on my hair colour and how it had ruined our relationship! It’s hardly MY fault!” he fumed, subconsciously rubbing at the patches of hair behind his right ear that were already going grey. John couldn’t help but laugh at this, earning a hardly suppressed grin from Greg, who eventually gave in and began laughing as well. The shill scream of the kettle jolted them from their euphoria however, and Greg poured them both some tea before heading back to curl up on the carpet of the living room. Iris instantly ran over and tried to sit in his lap, oblivious to the fact she was to big and ended up pinning Greg to the carpet, his tea threatening to spill across the already messy floor. John gave a quick whistle and she hopped over to him and curled up beside him, leaving Greg to get his breath back, an adoring smile on his face.

“She really has helped, I guess. Stopped me getting too lonely in the first couple of days. Great company- a million miles better than Amber. Doesn’t complain when I don’t clean.”

Johns mind wandered to the lonely boy living at 221B. _Maybe him and Greg would get along…_

“John? Earth to John?”

He shook his head slightly, clearing his thoughts and stared into Greg’s bewildered face.

“That is not how you are supposed to look at your best friend,

mate.”

“What? What did I do?” John blustered, flushing a deep red.

“You were giving me that look you used to give Sarah. Like whatever you were thinking was million times better that what you were currently occupied with,” Greg grinned mischievously.

John sighed. He’d thought he’d meant something else, but it had just been a joke. _Good._

“Well, it was. Much better than talking to you,” John retaliated

“Ooh, what were you thinking of then?” Greg nudged his arm and raised an inquisitive eyebrow

“I’ve met someone, and they’re just… really interesting.”

“I’ll bet they are,” Greg winked

“No! Not like that. Just a guy at school.”

“So… you were daydreaming about a guy you go to school with?”

John rolled his eyes. Greg could always turn a perfectly meaningless conversation on its head and make it mean something entirely different.

“Well when you put it like that, of course it’s going to sound different! No, I wasn’t daydreaming about him. We just got coffee yesterday and it was infinitely better than sitting here having to deal with you.”

John suddenly realised how that must have sounded and buried his face in his hands. He was just handing Greg ammunition. Sure enough, a few moments later, violent giggles erupted next to him and Greg was lying face down on the carpet trying to control himself. He really could be so childish sometimes.

“God, Greg. He has just moved into he flat above that café I work at and I sit with him in biology so we got coffee and he caught up with some school work.”

Greg had stopped laughing and was now staring at him with amazement. _Great, what now?_

“What, that tall kid with the black hair and the cheekbones?”

“Wha- yeah him. How the hell do you know him? He isn’t really the kind of person who would be socialising.”

Greg nodded enthusiastically

“Yeah, I ran into him last week outside a pub. Said he needed somewhere to stay because he’d run away from home or something and I recommended the flat. I told him Mrs Hudson would look after him for a bit. So he’s still there?”

 _So he’d told Greg about running away from home while having met him outside a pub?!_ John couldn’t really help but feel slightly betrayed at this. He’d had to bloody guess after all.

“Yeah. He’s still there. Seems happy.”

“God, he must be now he’s there. You should have seen the state he was in when I saw him,” Greg muttered worriedly. John hummed in agreement, thinking back to Sherlock’s various injuries to his face. They still looked pretty awful now, so what they must have looked like then wasn’t something he particularly wanted to dwell on.

“So,” Greg yawned, standing up and stretching, “Enough of this pondering over your new boyfriend. I’ve got to get out of this bloody flat. Fancy walking Iris with me?”

John scowled at the comment about him and Sherlock before shoving Greg towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a whole lot of Greg in this chapter. I couldn't really think of a name for the husky so just settled on Iris. Hope its decent. Please leave comments :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! Was in Yorkshire all day today for my cousins birthday so have only just finished this chapter. Hope its alright :)

‘Have you managed to pacify mother and father yet?’

‘I’m afraid not. I don’t think they will ever forgive you. You went too far this time.’

‘Too far?! Do you have any idea of the treatment I was getting?!’

‘Yes, I do, but you should never have just run off like that. Anything could have happened to you.’

‘No, it wouldn’t have because you are constantly able to monitor me and running away was the only thing I could do. The situation would never have improved, no matter what I did.’

‘You’re wrong Sherlock. The situation would have improved if you had learned to control your outbursts. Then we wouldn’t have to be dealing with all of the bullying and the problems at school.’

‘It wasn’t the fact couldn’t control my outbursts- which I can- it was because they hate me.’

‘They don’t hate you. They just hate some of your qualities.’

‘And knowing that is supposed to make me feel better how?’

‘I’m not trying to ask you feel better, I’m trying to make you see sense. Try going home and apologising, they would probably appreciate knowing you’re ok.’

‘And they would promptly put an end to me being ok by taking a belt to my face. Or maybe a cigarette, father seems to have a growing like of using those instead.’

‘This isn’t something to joke about Sherlock! Go home and see them. They’re worried. I’ve visited them a few days ago and mother was distraught, and I’ve never seen father so unfocused.’

‘They’re probably upset at the fact they will have to pay for a new punch bag now that I’m not around to act as one.’

‘Stop it. Just stop being so immature and visit them, or I will be forced to drag you there myself.’

‘No.’

‘I’m on my way now.’

Sherlock hung up threw his phone at the opposite wall where it hit the mantle piece and fell onto the fireplace with a satisfying smash. _Trust Mycroft to interfere._

He had been doing fine on his own! He didn’t need Mycroft to drag him to see his useless parents so they could pretend that everything was fine. It wasn’t. It never was and it probably never would be. Why Mycroft was so determined was a mystery. It wouldn’t solve anything; in fact, it would probably make things worse. His father would lose his temper almost immediately. His mother would quickly follow and proceed to yell at him about what a disappointing son he was. Mycroft would stand there and do nothing to improve the situation. He would probably end up storming out of the house-again- only to have Mycroft drag him back-again- and it would all happen on a continuous loop, forever leaving him void of praise and wishing he had a different family. Any family. He moved to the kitchen where his latest experiment had gone up in flames earlier that afternoon, leaving various metal powders and chemicals scattered across the worktop. Opening the fridge-and ignoring all of the unsavoury items he had placed there-he grabbed the milk and set about making tea. Mycroft wouldn’t be there for at least another 20 minutes and there was no use wasting that time being idle.

12 minutes later, he was sitting curled on the carpet in front of the fire, trying to find comfort in the dancing flames and the tea he was holding. He didn’t have much in the way of furniture, seeing as he was only staying there temporarily, so he had to make do. There were essentials, like a fridge and bed, but not much else. He had managed to swipe the science equipment from school and had sneaked back into his house earlier that week to retrieve it from his room as he found it difficult to stave of boredom without it. Talking to John had been a worthwhile distraction, but John would hardly stay forever. He would see how strange he was, what a freak he was, before leaving like everyone else so there was not much point in relying on him being a constant in his life.

A knock at the door downstairs made him jump. He looked out of the window and, sure enough, Mycroft was hovering on the doorstep in his expensive suit and holding his pointless umbrella, as always. _Doesn’t he know how pretentious he looks?_ He ignored him and went back to staring into the fire. Another knock at the door, slightly louder and more impatient this time, caused Mrs Hudson to go and answer it. Sherlock heard her slamming the door to her flat downstairs and going on about the fact that ‘everyone seems to be visiting at the most ridiculous times now. Why can’t they have the decency to call in the daylight hours at least?’ Sherlock heard the door open and Mycroft enter. They exchanged a few words, not loud enough for him hear, before Mycroft began making his way up the stairs.

He didn’t to bother to announce his entrance when reaching the flat, so Sherlock took it upon himself instead.

“Diet not working? Your steps seemed to sound a lot heavier than usual.”

Sherlock swivelled round on the floor to face his brother. Mycroft was frozen in the doorway, caught mid-step, glaring venomously at him. Sherlock gave him a devilish grin before turning away again.

“Sherlock, we’re leaving. Now.”

“Wouldn’t you like some tea before you leave?”

“No, **we** are leaving, **now**.”

Sighing he turned to face his brother again. _Why can’t he get it through his thick head?_

“I’m not going to see them. I refuse.”

“Well that’s a shame, because you are going to see them, regardless of your opinion on the matter.”

Sherlock shot up, almost the same height as his brother, and glared murderously at him. He wasn’t going to let this pass again.

“No. I’m not going. You can do whatever you want- take my money, force me onto the streets, get me arrested,-but I am NEVER going back to that hell-hole of a house again, no matter what the circumstances. Even if our parents died, I still wouldn’t go back there. You don’t understand. You were always the favoured one, the one who got everything he asked for, the one they could stay in the same room with for ten minutes without having threats thrown across at each other. They hate me. They never see anything in my achievements. No matter how hard I work or how much I try, I will never amount to anything in their eyes. I will always be a disappointment. I will always be worthless. They wouldn’t have cared if I had died the night I ran away, or any time since then. Hell, they probably would have been glad to finally see the back of me. They never cared, they don’t care and they never will care about what happens to me. To them, I personify every mistake they have ever made. I won’t do this anymore. I’m done pretending to be normal for them. We are all better off with me being away from them. No more injuries, no more hurt feelings, but you want to force us back together? That would just cause more damage, and I don’t want that. I hate them and I **never** want to be forced to interact with them again.”

Throughout this, Mycroft had just stood there. Unblinking. Not giving any sign he was acknowledging what his younger brother was saying- because Sherlock knew he knew all of this. He just didn’t want to believe that their family was really that broken. When they were as strange as they were, the Holmes brothers only really had their family to stand by. But Sherlock didn’t even have that anymore.

“Sherlock, please-“Mycroft began, before Sherlock interrupted with a snarl

“No. I’m not going.”

And with that, he stormed out of the room, slamming his bedroom door closed behind him and flinging himself onto his bed. He heard Mycroft leave. Only then did he let himself cry. The only person who had understood how his mind worked hadn’t really understood him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are just getting longer. Might update tomorrow, but I will probably be doing some exam revision so I'm not sure :/


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for updating so late, was doing stuff. This chapter is really just building up to some big stuff in the next couple of chapters so sorry if its a bit boring, but there we go.

Walking to down the biology corridor during lunch, John was surprised to see a familiar head of black curls waiting in the corridor. Unable to contain his joy at him being back at school again, he rushed over.

“Sherlock! Hi! Good that you’re back,” John grinned up at him, but his gaze was met by eyes empty of all emotion. The gleam he had spotted at the weekend when they had been talking about random strangers’ lives had been extinguished. Replacing it was a drowning hopeless glaze, making him seem blind to the outside world.

“Hey, you alright mate?” John asked carefully, nudging his arm

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’m here if you need me, alright?”

Sherlock turned to face him, a flicker of hope now showing in his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me?”

The hope died and he turned away again.

“No.”

John gave a swift nod and stood next to him in silence. There was still about half an hour left of lunch break, but he wasn’t going to leave Sherlock alone when he was like this. They might not know each other that well, but he wasn’t going to abandon him. Sherlock gave him a surprised glance before turning back to stare off into the distance again. The minutes ticked by in companionable silence before an obnoxious laughter echoed down the corridor. Sherlock suddenly paled-quite a feat seeing as he was already unbelievably pale- and, by the looks of it, tried to push himself through the wall they were leaning against and into the classroom beyond. A tall boy, taller than the either of them, rounded the corner with a small group of others, following him like very intimidating sheep. John mind struggled to place a name, but Sherlock clearly knew who he was. The boys dark eyes rested on the two of them and he gave a sneer before lumbering towards them.

“Good to see you’re back, Sherlock,” he leered “we’ve all missed you.”

The group exchanged glances, relishing Sherlock’s obvious fear.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock choked by way of greeting

“Where were you? Was it your father again? He really does have quite a temper on him. Get angry at you for being kicked out of your biology class?”

Sherlock’s eyes were wide and he again looked like a rabbit in the headlights. He was glancing around the corridor looking for an escape and looked as if he was going to sprint off at any moment. John fixed his gaze on the floor. He didn’t particular want to end up with a broken nose- or worse- but if he got involved that was clearly going to be the case. Unfortunately, though, Sebastian noticed him.

“Oh, who’s this? Got yourself a new ‘friend’?” the sarcasm on the word ‘friend’ was so apparent it might as well have been etched into John brain with a permanent marker.

“Don’t you remember what happened to our last friend? Your habits and friends don’t seem to mix very well, do they?”

John had been right. Sherlock suddenly sprinted off down the corridor, trying to get away as fast as he could. John felt betrayed, but he would have done the same under the circumstances. Sebastian laughed and his gang ran off in pursuit of Sherlock- who had now long since rounded the corner and disappeared. Sebastian, however, turned to face John.

“You really do need to be careful when it comes to that freak. His friends never last long-I should know. Just stay as far away from him as possible and you might make it to college.”

He then padded off down the corridor, leaving John alone. _Why is everyone warning me to stay away? What the hell has Sherlock done?_  Deciding there wasn’t much point in letting these questions run unanswered around his head, he headed off after them all, desperately hoping they hadn’t caught up with Sherlock.

As he left the school building, none of them were in sight. The bell would go any minute but he had to find them. There was a sudden tap on his shoulder and he span round to find himself looking into the terrified eyes of Molly. She was almost a head shorter than him, and he was quite short as it was. She had her colourful scarf wrapped around her mouth, causing her speech to become muffled beyond recognition.

“Molly, what are you saying? I can’t understand you with that bloody scarf over your mouth,” John sighed. He didn't have time for this.

She unwound the scarf to leave it trailing along the ground, making her look like a ten year old.

“I was saying that Sherlock ran off and a gang of really awful looking guys were following him. You two are friends right? I mean, you talk to him more than most people, so you must be! Do you think you could look out for him? He does tend to get in a LOT of trouble and he really does need someone to just keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t do anything to stupid. I’ve tried, but-“

“Molly! You’re rambling and this is important. No, we aren’t proper friends; we’ve only really talked about four times. But yes, I am keeping an eye on him, so where did they go?”

Molly glanced around as if trying to remember.

“Oh! I think they might have actually left school. That can’t be good, anything could happen. Maybe he’ll be back for less-“

The bell left the sentence unfinished as they stared at each other, not really knowing what to do now. _We could always tell a teacher… I guess_. However, Molly stopped this thought before it had even fully formed.

“We mustn’t tell anyone. Sherlock is always in enough trouble as it is so him leaving the school grounds for no reason could get him expelled. If anyone asks, he went home ill, agreed?”

The urgency in her voice shocked John slightly. She was never so sure or commanding about anything, and her determination to… protect? Sherlock startled him. He gave a nod in consent and reluctantly made his way back to biology.

No one asked where Sherlock was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know anything about Sebastian, but I hope my depiction of him is ok. U have A LOT of stuff to do this week so I seriously don't know when I'll have time to wrote, but I will try!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've broken the pattern! I had to write this chapter from Johns POV or it wouldn't really work. I did try, but it just wasn't to be. It will be back to normal next chapter! Promise! Also, you may have noticed that I have changed the tags slightly. Id have a look before you read on (although they don't particularly apply to this chapter)

The second the bell rung to signify the end of school, John slung his bag over his shoulder and raced out of the classroom. He ran all the way to the languages block, where Molly was just leaving her French class. Calling to her, he slowed to a stop- catching his breath- before continuing.

“I’m going to go and look for Sherlock. I haven’t seen him come back and he could be anywhere. He’s probably in the streets around school or something because we’re miles away from where he’s staying.”

Molly nodded frantically

“I’ll join you; we can search a larger area. Where do you want to look?”

-

Parting ways at the gates, John turning left and Molly right, they began their search. John knew these streets well as he had spent half his life wandering them with friends and knew most of the places people would be attacked. Sherlock would probably be in one of those. Heading down several alleyways he came to the first spot: the bins behind the nearby cafes. Searching behind each one John found that he was nowhere to be seen. _Good, this place is probably the worst to end up in._ Jogging away, nose held up in disgust, he headed to the next spot. He wasn’t there either; or in the next one or the one after that. John was beginning to worry. He had no phone call from Molly to say she had found him- and she had been pretty determined- and he was running out of places to check. He had taken the way with the more likely places as he had been pretty sure that Molly wouldn’t have known what the hell to do if she had found him. Checking his watch, he saw that it had been almost 45 minutes. _Maybe he has just gone home, it’s not like they would have broken his legs._ He began to doubt these thoughts the second hey crossed his mind, however, as he neared to next spot. It was an underpass about twenty minutes from school and was almost always home to a gang of kids from his and the neighbouring school smoking or dealing drugs or whatever the hell they felt like doing. Today however, it was empty except for one figure, propped against the wall, arm pressed to his face to stem the heavy flow of blood pouring from his nose.

“Oh my god.” John muttered to himself before running over “Sherlock! Hey, ya’ll right?” John asked, stooping down to his level.

Sherlock’s stared up at him, expression a mix of the utmost confusion and heart-wrenching gratefulness. The second of these disappeared almost instantly however and Sherlock hissed up at him;

“What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”

Not exactly the thank you he hadn’t really been expecting anyway, so John ignored him. “Are you alright? What did they do? Anything broken?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, causing John to notice the uneven pupils.

“It doesn’t matter. Leave me alone. I can look after myself.” “No you can’t. If you could, you would have moved. You’ve been here for over two hour,” John replied, the look of shock on Sherlock’s face almost comical, “Now; I need to check for broken bones if you aren’t going to say what happened.”

“No!” Sherlock yelped, shuffling away as fast as he could

“Well tell me what happened then!”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed, voice muffled by the arm pressed to his nose, “They shoved me into the wall, kicked me in the face and stamped on my wrist. Happy?”

John was shocked by the brutality of it, but didnt let it show. _This happens all the time,_ he reminded himself, _just not to people I really  know._ Taking out his phone, he quickly scrolled to Molly’s number and pressed dial. It was picked up almost immediately.

“I’ve found him Molly, you can go home now.”

“Are you sure? Is he ok? Do you need any help? I could go to where you are and-“

“No Molly, its fine. I’ve got it,” John swiftly interrupted before hanging up. If she was there, she would just panic and it would take longer to get anything done. Sherlock was looking at him, eyes puzzled, but he said nothing.

“So, do you mind if I check your wrist?” he asked calmly.

Sherlock scrunched up his eyes, before gingerly holding out his arm for John to check. He had barely touched his arm, however, before Sherlock gave an undignified shriek of pain and drew it back as quickly as he could.

“Sherlock, I really need to check this. It could be broken, in which case we need to get you to a hospital, and that would be better done now than later. Ok?” John reasoned.

He stretched out his arm again, burying his face in his other arm- which was still pressed to his face. John checked his wrist, feeling for a break. It didn’t take long before he was certain.

“Alright, I don’t think it’s broken. Probably just a sprain. Now, is your nose still bleeding?”

To prove this, Sherlock lifted his arm away from his face, jumper now dripping into his lap, and a sudden stream of blood ran down his face. John didn’t really need to check this. If it had been bleeding that much for that long it was probably broken.

“You’ve probably broken that. Now, you have lost a lot of blood. Do you feel lightheaded?”

“No.”

This was said with less determination than intended and ended up sounding quite pitiful.

“Then can you stand?”

John took hold of Sherlock uninjured arm and steadied him as he stood up. Swaying slightly, Sherlock leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. _Possible concussion,_ Johns mind supplied. He needed to get him to a hospital or a proper doctor. His mother and father would have been a good choice but they were currently visiting his aunt in the country, leaving him and Harry alone. Again turning to his phone, he dialled the first number on his contacts.

“John?! What the fuck! You know I’m at college toady!” a voice whispered angrily

“Yeah, Greg, I know, but this is really important.”

“Important enough for you to phone me in the middle of a lesson? No, it’s sure as shit not.”

“Listen, Greg, I need to get to the hospital and I can’t move from where I am, so get yourself over here as soon as you can or I’ll make sure you pay for it next time I see you.”

There was a muffled crash from the phone and John could just about hear Greg saying “Oh god! I’m so sorry, sir! I’ll go and get a new table,” before the sound of running footsteps and door slamming.

“Right, where the hell are you?”

“The underpass. When will you be here?”

“Give me ten minute, mate.” He hung up.

John turned back to Sherlock, who was now staring at him, eyes wide.

“Why are you helping me?”

The question struck John. Why? Had nobody ever helped before? Surely someone had… surely.

“Because I’m not going to leave you to bleed to death.” John grinned grimly, remembering their first meeting. _I wonder if this kind of thing happens to him very often. It can hardly be that uncommon if its happened twice in the last month-ish._

-

John heard the sound of the vehicle approaching first and raced off to wave it over. The familiar, battered old camper van pulled up at the entrance to the tunnel and Greg jumped out, slamming the door.

“So what the hell happened? I though you said you couldn’t move!” Greg shouted at John, eyes flashing dangerously

“I can move, but he can’t,” John motioned to the teen slumped against the wall behind him, “So can you drive us to the nearest doctor or something? And quickly please.”

Greg threw his arms in the air in exasperation before stamping back over to the van and opening the doors, while John hurried over to support Sherlock. He noted the slight wince as he grabbed him under the arms and pretty much dragged him to the van. Once they were seated on the pews in the back (Sherlock lying down on one side), the van pulled off, Greg cursing for a few minutes from the front.

“So,” Greg asked evetually “what happened?”

The question was directed at the both of them but John was surprised when Sherlock answered drily.

“None of your business, Gavin.”

“I think you’ll find it is, seeing as I’m the one driving you to a doctor,” Greg answered more softly, “And my name is Greg.”

Sherlock mumbled something incoherent before rolling onto his side, facing the wall. In the light, he looked awful. His jumper was sodden with blood and it coated his lower face and neck. His right arm hung limply to the floor, useless. Greg raised his eyebrows at John in the rear-view mirror, clearly expecting better answer from John.

“Sorry Greg,” John muttered, shaking his head, “But if he doesn’t want to tell you, I cant.”

He said this in the tone he and Greg had perfected and recognised as meaning ‘I’ll tell you later, but you must never speak of it to another living soul.’ Greg gave a nod and focused on the road again. Checking the maps on his phone, John saw that the nearest GP was only ten minutes away, but in the end-of-work traffic, it was going take a lot longer. Sherlock gave a well-timed groan of pain and John only hoped they got there as quickly as they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope if was alright! Sorry I dint add a chapter yesterday but I was busy :(   
> (and if you're curious, Greg's van is an old VW camper van. I love those)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the normal pattern now! Whoop! (Also, if you're interested, I got all of the medical information form the NHS website, plus my parents are nurses, so its pretty accurate)

When the van pulled to a stop, Sherlock hardly noticed. He was too busy trying to stem the now ebbing flow of blood from his nose and failing to ignore the intense pain in his wrist. Lying face down on the seat he continued to wonder why the hell anyone was helping him. Let alone two people who hardly knew him. A sudden but gentle poke to his shoulder jolted him back to reality and he turned to stare up at John. The edges of his vision were slightly clouded but he could still make out his face clearly. He looked concerned. Really concerned. Why!? No one’s ever cared before, why now?!

“We’re here. We need to get you seen to as quickly as we can-I’m quite worried ta the amount of blood you’re losing.”

With that, John grabbed his uninjured ram-the one soaked in blood- and began to drag him towards the doors, where the guy whose name wasn’t Gavin had opened them and helped support him. Hobbling over to the clinic, Sherlock really began to feel the effects of his blood loss. He had to stop and steady himself several times as his vision began to swim and he could fell himself drifting off. It didn’t really worry him. It had happened enough times to be no real cause of concern. John, however, thought differently and rushed over to him every time he showed even the slightest sign of weakness. 

Once inside, every pair of eyes turned to stare. He wanted to fold in on himself, become invisible. He liked being noticed, but not when he wasn’t trying to be. The woman nearest to them, eyeing his bloodied clothes, grabbed her young sons hand and moved to the furthest part of the waiting room, sending him an acid-filled glare. The receptionist was no different. She could only have been mid-twenties and kept shooting him angry looks while John bluntly explained that they needed to see someone as quickly as possible. She snapped back that she would see what she could do before bustling off. John looked quite hurt as they walked away and slumped into he nearest chair, head in hands-something to do with that judgemental receptionist. Not-Gavin had noticed to.

“Hey, who pissed in your cornflakes?” he grinned- despite the situation- as several shocked heads turned his way and some old man shook his head, muttering about ‘crude language’ and the fact that ‘there are children present.’

“The receptionist,” Sherlock supplied, blinking back the mist invading his vision again.

John nodded

“She’s Sarah’s sister. Always hated me, even more so now we’re not together.”

“Oh. Well, at least Sarah’s not here. Or Amber. That would be hell for the both of us.”

“Ex-girlfriends.” Sherlock muttered to himself, not really a fan of keeping his thoughts in his head. 

Not-Gavin shot him a surprised look before John explained that it was normal for him. Why are these people so accepting? THEY DON’T KNOW ME!

The receptionist hurried back and directed them upstairs to Dr.Wynters’ room. Upon entering, a cheery looking middle aged woman greeted them. Her hair was bleached blonde by the sun and she sat twizzling a ring on her finger. She looked painfully happy. Just got back from her honeymoon in Greece. He quickly deduced. At least his current condition wasn’t hindering his abilities. 

“Hello Mr Holmes. Would you take a seat for me?”

He took the seat nearest the desk, shuffling away slightly, while John took the one next to him and not-Gavin hovered by the door. 

“So,” Dr. Wynters asked, eying his bloodied jumper, “What’s happened?”

John quickly recounted what had happened, thankfully leaving out the fact that he had been beaten up, and instead saying he fell of his bike. I’ve never had a bike in my life. Idiot. He did, however, give his diagnosis, to which Wynters gave a smile before checking his face and wrist. His nose bleed had receded now but he scrunched up his eyes and tried to hide the wince he gave when she prodded at his face- I hate being touched- before she moved to his wrist. He was unable to hide the wince then as a violent jolt of pain shot up his arm and he had to restrain himself from recoiling. She ran through all of the usual questions of ‘can you move your wrist?’ and ‘how much does it hurt? What does the pain feel like?’ to which Sherlock gave an uninterested and usually cringingly sarcastic reply. After what seemed like an age, Wynters finally gave nod and moved back to her desk.

“You were right. You’ve sprained your wrist, quite badly actually, and I’m afraid you’ve broken your nose as well. I’m going to have to put your arm in a sling for the time being and prescribe you some mild painkillers. Use PRICE therapy, which stands protection, rest, ice, compression and elevation, and it, should be alright in about three weeks, but probably more. For your nose, I can prescribe painkillers for that as well, but it would be best to just take the ones I give you for your wrist as they will work just as well. The swelling should go down after a week or two, as will the bruising. If this doesn’t happen, then you need to come back. It should just heal naturally at home. Make sure to keep this ice pack”-she handed him an ice pack-“on it for the next hour or so and on-and-off for the next few days. Ok?” She smiled before turning to her computer and began typing up a prescription and printing it off. “Now, I’m going to have to phone your parents or guardian to pick you up and give permission for this medication.”

He froze. Why did everyone always have to bring his parents into everything? He could look after himself! He didn’t need them. They wouldn’t be happy if, after weeks of not seeing him, they suddenly got phone call saying their son needed medical attention. They would probably refuse to agree to it and then where would he be? While he was thinking through all of this, however, he didn’t miss the worried look John and not-Gavin each other.

“Um,” John muttered, “would it be okay if I signed for it? I mean, its only painkillers…”

He trailed off as Wynters turned to him

“I’m sorry, but I have to have a responsible adult of immediate family sign for this and you could only be about sixteen, dear.” She turned back to Sherlock “Would you like to phone them to explain what’s happening?”

“Wait a second!” Not-Gavin spluttered “Responsible adult?”

“Yes,” Wynters replied, raising a suspicious eyebrow

“I’m an adult,” he reasoned-Sherlock noticed he left out the 'responsible' part this time.

“And what is you relation to Mr Holmes? You surly can’t be his guardian.”

He would have to do some quick thinking and Sherlock could almost see his thought process. If he said parent or guardian that would be too unbelievable, as would saying brother as they had different surnames. So…

“Well, I’m his boyfriend. So can I sign for it?”

He had to restrain himself from burying his head in his hands and just dying of embarrassment on the spot. Why is it always me? As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough already. Instead, he gave a curt nod at Wynters, who looked slightly taken-aback.

“Well, I guess I could make an exception…” she muttered “Seeing as his parents aren’t here. Are you sure that you aren’t pulling my leg?” she asked, giving them a scrutinising glare that looked quite out-of-place on her kind face.

“No, we’re not. I would just feel more comfortable if he signed for it. I don’t really want to bother my parents-they’re having a hard time at the moment and making them come all the way here just to sign for painkillers would just cause them unnecessary stress,” Sherlock spoke up. Might as well play along. This seemed to work and she motioned for not-Gavin to sign the prescription. 

He quickly scribbled his signature and, on the way past Sherlock, reached out a hand ruffled his hair. God, just why? He saw John from the corner of his eye trying desperately to contain his laughter, face turning red. They then made their way from the surgery, not-Gavin holding him up again, this time standing a bit closer. They managed to make it down the stairs and through the waiting area before John exploded into hysterical laughter. Not-Gavin soon joined in and Sherlock had to try desperately not to lash out at either of them. They had helped him after all, and besides, he only had one functioning arm. Not-Gavin moved away from him to open the doors and Sherlock was glad to be rid of the contact as he climbed into the back. John sat opposite him, occasionally glancing his way, triggering a fresh wave of giggles.

“Would you two stop that please?” Sherlock grumbled “I find it quite offensive to have people laugh at me, no matter how often it happens.”

This managed to sober their moods and they quickly regained their more serious exteriors. 

“So how’s your wrist?” John asked, eyeing him with concern again

“It still hurts, but I’m used to pain. This is nothing.”

John gave him a sympathetic look, as did not-Gavin (who glanced back at them in the mirror). 

“Would you two stop that? You’re both looking at me like some injured puppy!” Sherlock moaned, trying his best to throw his arms up in exasperation, but failing miserably- his sling falling back to his chest with a dull thump, causing him to wince and swear loudly. This made John laugh again and Greg almost hit a lamppost.

“It’s kind of hard when you actually act like one. Now, we’re taking you back to your flat, aren’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done Greg, well done. I'm going away in a few days and I'm not sure if there will be WiFi, so if there isn't, I might not be able to update for the next week. But don't worry! I will make it my quest to find WiFi no matter what the consequences! Huzzah!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back everybody! I found WiFi so am able to update today! I really hope at least a couple of people missed this or have been looking forward to this chapter. Also, Sherlock texts are the ones in bold.

The sun was setting over the roofs of Baker Street as they pulled up outside the café. It being evening on a weekday, London was buzzing and it had taken them a while to get back because of all the traffic. John stepped out of the van, closely followed by Sherlock stumbling after him, and made his way into the café. It had closed about an hour previously, but on account of him working there, he had a key. Sherlock had left his in his locker so it was their only way in. The lights were off throughout the whole floor, minus the ones in Mrs Hudson’s flat, which John was extremely grateful for. She would be sure to look after Sherlock now. Opening the door to her flat, John saw her in the kitchen, worrying over a cup of tea. The sound of the door made her look up and relief flushed her face.

“Oh, thank God you’re back, I was getting really-“She stopped, eyes widening at the state of Sherlock “What happened? Are you alright?”

She scurried over to them, knocking over her tea in her hurry, and grabbed Sherlock’s uninjured arm, his jumper still covered in blood. John noticed again the wince at contact.

“It was nothing. I just… um…” He looked lost, clearly unable to think of something believable relating to his condition.

“He was hit by a bike,” John quickly chipped in.

“Well, I hope you saw someone about it,” she raised an eyebrow at John- she didn’t believe him.

“Yeah, actually, we went to the nearest GP. They gave him a prescription for painkillers.”

“What? Well, who-who signed for it?” She asked, voice rising in alarm, glancing worriedly between the two of them. So she knows to. Sherlock gave him a furious glare and there was no way John was going to tell her they had scammed the GP when he had Sherlock silently threatening to rip his arms off. _Well, I won’t lie then._

“His boyfriend.” _There is no way I’m making it home alive._

Mrs Hudson just looked up at Sherlock, a look of uncontained joy on her face, and Sherlock-unable to escape the situation- just had to smile back. “Well that’s nice, that you have someone looking out for you. What’s his name?”

“George," Sherlock answered shortly with a tight smile, barely concealing his fury.

John had to restrain himself from bursting into hysterics again. He really shouldn’t have started this, but he just couldn’t help himself.

“Then next time you see George, can you say thank you on my behalf? Your brother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Sherlock said this with a smile, but the pure malice showing in his eyes just made him look like a psychotic clown- minus the makeup.

“Alright, so do you want me to wash your jumper? It’s filthy and you have school.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before roughly pulling the jumper over his head, making him squeak slightly in pain. She bustled off, bloody jumper in hand, leaving the two teenagers standing in the door. Sherlock stood with his arms crossed as best he could; hair now a tangled mess, shoulders hunched and looking absolutely livid about being babied. John gave him a light tap on the shoulder and he glanced over.

“I’ll see you at school then?”

Sherlock gave a brief nod before focusing back on Mrs Hudson. John took this as his cue to leave but suddenly remembered he hadn’t handed over the prescription, which he was still holding onto. He spun Sherlock to face him, and placed the crumpled slip of green paper in his hand.

“Make sure to get these ASAP. Do you remember what she said you had to do?” _Of course he does, he knows bloody everything._

“Actually, I started ignoring her about three words into her little speech.” _Well, shit then._

With a shake of his head, John quickly took a notebook out of his schoolbag-which he had brought with him-and scribbled out his phone number, before handing it over to a bewildered Sherlock. “Text me and I’ll text back instructions. You really need to follow them and I know what I’m talking about.”

“What makes you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“You sat in a dark underpass for about two hours without looking for help, despite the obviously massive amount of blood you were losing.”

“Maybe I couldn’t be bothered to move, so took matters into my own hands.”

“And that includes waiting for yourself to bleed to death?”

Sherlock pulled a face- _he must have very little experience in losing arguments._

“Fine,” he muttered, before stomping out of the flat and up the stairs.

“Sorry dear, he is terribly antisocial,” Mrs Hudson said, the washing machine now happily rumbling away behind her, “He’s had no friends round here or anything the whole time has been staying. He just stays up there, on his own, doing whatever he thinks is important. Mostly setting the kitchen on fire. Last week he-“

“Sorry Mrs Hudson, I’ve really got to go. Harry will want to know where I am,” Which was slightly true, she might be worried, but it was mostly because he didn’t really want to listen to her recount the recent disastrous events in Sherlock’s life.

“Oh alright. I’ll see you at work this weekend.”

John quickly left as he’d left Greg waiting outside and he would probably be pretty pissed by now. He was right. Greg was sitting in the drivers seat methodically banging his head on the steering wheel, occasionally hitting the horn and warranting several concerned looks from passers-by. Suddenly noticing John, he rolled down the window and started yelling at him.

“What the hell John? You’ve been gone forever! What were you doing, making him a new arm? Come on!”

-

For the third time that day, he clambered out of the van and was now facing his small house. One of the windows had been smashed by Harry recently- having moved back in after the breakup- as she had sent a wine bottle through it. He could hear the extremely loud trashy pop music she was playing at the bottom of the dive and quickly made his way into the house. Their neighbours had issued a complaint to the police last week due to the amount of liquor bottles ending up in their garden and if they complained again they would find themselves on the receiving end of a very large fine. They just couldn’t afford it.

“Harry!” he shouted, but with no response “HARRY, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

The music came to a halt, leaving a buzzing silence in its wake, and loud footsteps came rushing across the landing and down the stairs. Harry swerved into view, eyes ringed with red and a half empty beer bottle hanging loosely in her hand.

“Calm down John, it’s not like I’m waking up the whole street.”

“Yes, Harry, you were. I could hear that shitty music from about three houses down. We can’t afford to get any complaints! You know how tight money is at the moment, and if we get a fine, I don’t know what the hell we’ll do. I might have to get two jobs as it is, and we don’t need you making the bills pile up further. It already bad enough with you using our parents money to buy any drinks you can get your hands on-“

He ducked as the beer bottle flew at his head and smashed against the wall behind him, showering him in splinters of glass. He’d been expecting it really; she always got angry when he mentioned how her drinking was eating into the family’s budget. He brushed some glass from his shoulders and faced her. She was clearly livid, but tears were now streaming down her face.

“I’m sorry Harry,” he continued more carefully-he couldn’t let his temper get the better of him again now she was like this- “but I’m just worried. About you and Mum and Dad and this new... friend who keeps getting himself almost killed, and everything is just a bit stressful at the moment. I’ll try not to lose my temper again; I shouldn’t have said those things. Forgive me?”

He opened his arms for hug and she rushed to him, burying her head in his shoulder and began to sob. This always happened. They could never talk about things that mattered because it would always end in tears or angry silence. It was always him out of the two siblings who had to be the responsible one, despite Harry being the oldest, and it was slowly taking over his life. It should really be her taking a job to help with money, but instead she sat around all day lamenting her wasted youth while John was out wasting his. He really wanted to have a life like the one Greg had. Sure, he was one parent short after his father was shot almost ten years ago, but everything else was fine with him. He could afford to go to university when he left college, he could afford to take driving lessons and get a car, he could afford to go out almost every weekend with friends and enjoy himself, whereas John was stuck here, desperately trying to fill the holes left behind by the rest of his family. He was suddenly jerked back out of this swirling pit of despair by his phone buzzing. Letting go of Harry and rushing upstairs, he locked himself in his room and quickly checked his texts.

Unknown number: 

**‘So, what was it I’m supposed to be doing?’**

‘Is this Sherlock?’

**‘Well unless you have a habit of just giving out your phone number to random strangers, then yes, it is.’**

‘I don’t do that. That would be weird. Why the hell would anyone do that?’

**‘John, can we please stop this pointless conversation and actually talk about something useful? Like you telling me what I’m supposed to be doing?”**

“Alright-”

John proceeded to repeat everything said at the clinic, as he had secretly audio-recorded almost the entire appointment so he could use it to revise the points mentioned. He really did need to know as much as he could about medical practises if he wanted to be successful in a medical course. Wherever the information came from. It took him about ten minutes to type out the whole thing, during which he received no less that 27 texts from Sherlock asking him to hurry up, getting less and less polite each time. _Just as rude as in person._ Surprisingly, less than a minute after he had pressed send, he got a reply.

**'Why?'**

_Why? What the hell does he mean, why?!_

‘You ask that a lot.’

**‘It’s how I get most of my information- so will you actually answer?’**

‘Because, that’s what you’re supposed to do when these things happen and you need to recover.’

**‘BORING.’**

‘What do you mean boring?’

**‘I mean, that’s not an answer. I understand that that is what you’re supposed to do in these situations.’**

‘Then what are you asking? I thought you were the one who knew everything.’

**‘I know most things, John, not everything. So care to explain?’**

‘What, like explain how painkillers work and stuff?’

**‘No, I know that.’**

‘Then will you just actually tell me what I’m supposed to be answering then?’

**‘Why do you care?’**

‘You’re asking this again? Seriously?’

**‘Yes.’**

‘Why?’

**‘Don’t change the subject, John, just answer the question.’**

‘I’ve already answered it though!’

**‘Well, answer it again because I accidently deleted it.’**

‘Deleted? What the hell are you going on about?’

**‘Just answer the bloody question.’**

‘Well, it’s just the right thing to do I guess.’

**‘What, try and help the freak who everyone hates and risk injury to yourself?’**

‘Not EVERYONE hates you, surely.’

**‘You’d be surprised.’**

‘I don’t hate you, Molly doesn’t hate you, Greg doesn’t hate you…’

**‘You’re dodging the question again.’**

‘It’s the right thing to do- as I said. I don’t really care if I risk my own safety, because that’s just what I’m like. I want to help people. That’s why I want to be a doctor.’

**‘Dull.’**

‘Dull?!’

**‘Yes, that’s what I said. You don’t need to repeat it.’**

‘How is it dull?!’

**‘Its just a really childish reason. Why bother helping someone if they are just going to end up in the same situation again and again? It’s a waste of time, so it’s dull.’**

‘Because it means that they know someone cares.’

**‘And that’s why you helped me?’**

John switched off his phone. He didn’t want to say over text that the reason he had helped was because he thought Sherlock deserved some kindness. As far as John could see, no one else was showing him any. But he was definitely going to change that. No matter how much Sherlock objected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, they're already arguing like an old married couple. I don't know when I'll be able to update again agaiun, but hopefully soon! Please comment!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV
> 
> Also, thought I'd mention, I will now accept prompts. Feel free to message me here or on tumbr, I'm: lumos-sootica. I happily await your ideas :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Friends at last! Hurrah!

It was cold. He’d never really noticed before, but with his coat left at home due to the fact it was hindering him because of the sling he was wearing, it was definitely cold. He folded in on himself a bit more and turned the collar of his blazer up to try and block out the biting wind. Mrs Hudson had been unable to get all of the blood off his jumper so he was very lucky he’d left his blazer at school. He’d run inside to collect it and then headed back out-he had no interest in the stares he had received when his peers noticed his arm, accompanied by one or two snide comments like ‘You deserved it,’ or ‘Why couldn’t they have just broken his neck? Then we’d be rid of him.’ _Charming._

He was at leaning against one of the trees by the school gates. It was his favourite spot in the school because no one ever went there and he could scheme in peace. It also doubled as somewhere to hide if he was being chased as it was surrounded by plants and the only way he could be spotted was if the attackers were situated outside school, looking in through the fence. He closed his eyes and let the pale sunlight create stripes across his face where it managed to break through the knotted tree branches above him. Closing his eyes, he resolved to enjoy the hour or so before he had to go to class like this. It was relaxing and provided him with the escape he desperately needed.

“Morning Sherlock.”

His eyes snapped open at the sound of his name and he let his gaze wander to the shorter teen standing on the other side of the fence, awaiting a reply.

“Hello John.”

He made it sound as unenthusiastic as he possible could and looked back up through the tree branches again, hoping for John to just leave.

“How’s your wrist doing?” _No, of course he won’t leave. Don’t be stupid._

“It’s fine.”

John smiled and headed off. _Well, that was easier than-_

“Are you seriously just going to sit there? It’s bloody freezing.” John was standing above him, a wide grin set on his face “We could go to the library. I’m sure it’s warmer there.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _This is childish._

“John, it was decent of you to help me yesterday, but I don’t want to talk.”

“I never said-“

“No, but you were implying it. You want to talk to me, for god knows what reason, and maybe strike up some weak form of friendship? Is that it?” He hadn’t meant it to, but his tone had gotten colder as the conversation went on. John looked bewildered, if slightly annoyed.

“If you don’t think that me helping you means that we don’t have some sort of friendship then you really don’t get it. I want to know you. You’re really interesting.”

_Interesting? How am **I** interesting? I’m just some random teenager with a troubled family and a bullying problem. _

“Alone is what I have, John. It protects me. I don’t need friends.”

“No, friends protect you. And if you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been doing an awful lot of that lately.”

_Shit. Why do I keep losing these arguments with him?_

“So stop complaining and let’s go to the library.”

“Fine. We’ll go to the bloody library-it is definitely the place with the least amount of stupid people in this wretched school,” he finally relented.

John grinned again and headed off towards the building, Sherlock trailing miserably behind him.

-

“You know, when we were talking in the café you were a lot happier.”

They were sitting in the most secluded corner of the library due to the recurring glares Sherlock was receiving, Sherlocks head now buried in a particularly interesting psychology book with John rambling on next to him. He looked up from the page he was currently reading and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I was. There was no chance of anyone from this hellish place turning up- it’s almost on the other side of London.”

John nodded slowly and began staring at the ceiling. _He’s clearly not used to having such a difficult conversation partner._

“So, um…”

Sherlock loudly slammed the book shut, making John jump.

“What do you want to actually ask me? You’ve been trying to avoid it for the past fifteen minutes. It’s annoying. Ask away.”

John was looking at him like he had spouted a third arm and he was blushing a deeper shade of crimson every second.

“I don’t really want to pry-“

“I don’t care. I already have people here who know too much about me so sharing a few extra facts will hardly do me much harm will it? And I doubt you’ll tell anyone anyway.”

That was a lie. A certain few 'extra facts' could seriously harm him. He’d decided quite a few years ago that he was never to trust anyone after a certain…incident and he was never going to trust anyone with these particular facts.

“I was just wondering…” John stuttered

“Spit it out.”

John stared at him, confusion clouding his eyes and a grimace etched on his face.

“Why do people do this to you?”

Sherlock felt the colour drain from his face. Of course John was going to ask that- it was exactly what he had been expecting him to ask, so why was he acting like this? He noticed John trying to backtrack again, failing to hide his obvious disappointment. He thought Sherlock wasn’t going to answer, just like everyone else. They all thought he was too weak, not brave enough to answer. Over the years, he’d gotten used to it. Every acquaintance, every family member- everyone had always thought him the strange, weak one. Seeing these familiar emotions cross Johns face shouldn’t have bothered him. It did.

“John, I’m not some weakling you need to protect. I can answer that; I would happily answer that to anyone who would care enough to listen, so can you actually let me answer without throwing me a pity party?”

John nodded, embarrassed. _He should be._

“It’s because they blame me. When I spell out their lives for them, they always blame me. Any anger they were harbouring is transferred and I’m suddenly the cause of all their problems. For example, I told someone a few weeks ago that their wife was cheating on them and had a wine bottle thrown at my head. Sometimes it’s nothing to do with that. Sometimes it may actually deserve it. Not very often, but sometimes. Most of the time, it’s because I’m just there. I am probably the least likely person in this entire school who people will notice because I’m always sporting some sort of injury. Who will notice one more? The teachers hate me enough to ignore it; I have no friends to prevent it. Wherever I go, whoever is there, it is always me.”

John had listened to this in shocked silence. It was nice to actually express some of his emotions (not that he would EVER do it again) and it was even better for someone to listen who wasn’t going to hit him for it. The silence continued, John occasionally opening his mouth to say something, thinking better of it, and snapping it shut gain. It gave him the look of a particularly conflicted goldfish. However, he eventually found his voice

“That’s awful. I mean, I get why people would get angry at you saying… certain things, but that really is just awful,” he muttered

“You have more questions. Ask away.”

John went to protest, saying something about how he’d already asked enough, how he didn’t want to intrude, but Sherlock cut him off.

“John, don’t blind me with those pointless reasons. You have questions and I am in generous enough mood to answer them. If I were you, I would take this opportunity- I doubt it will happen again.”

He seemed to forget his protests and instantly another question was in the air between them.

“What did you say to Anderson? And Sebastian?”

“I told Andersons girlfriend he was cheating on her.”

John waited for the second answer, but none came. That was one of the only questions he would never answer anyone. John seemed to take the hint and carried on.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what? My deductions?”

“If that’s what you call them, yes.”

“I just observe. The smallest details can be some of the most useful.”

“So... what lesson do I have first?”

“English.”

“What did I have for breakfast?”

“Nothing.”

“How long have I been working at Speedys?”

“Almost a year.”

“When’s my birthday?”

Sherlock grinned at John who was trying desperately not to laugh.

“How the hell am I supposed to know that?”

That seemed to be enough and within a few seconds John was laughing so loudly he had to bury his face in his school bag to avoid them being kicked out for being too disruptive. The nearest students were casting them concerned glances and a skittish group of year 7s hurried away, glancing back and whispering about them. Johns laughter subsided into quiet giggles and he glared at them jokingly, causing them to disappear behind the nearest bookcase. Sherlock smiled, he hadn’t felt this accepted in a while and he had forgotten how nice it could be. _Maybe I could give this a chance._ He quickly made up his mind and, looking at his watch, stood up. John joined him, still smiling like an idiot. “So,” Sherlock asked, turning to John, serious demeanour back in place,

“Which is your weakest subject?”

Johns smile faded and he gave him a puzzled look “Physics. Why?”

“Mine is PE,” Sherlock grinned “potential friends really should know the worst about each other.”

He quickly swept up his school bag and began making his way to his Physics lesson, not looking back. He didn’t need to. He could already hear John laughing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally manged to get this chapter up. It took me FOREVER as my computer was having a bit of a breakdown. I'm afraid I wont be updating for about week now probably because I shall be being crushed various maths, Latin and science text books as I will be revising for my end of year tests. How is it the end of the year in APRIL?! Anyway, hope to be back soon. Please comment, maybe to even wish me luck. I am seriously going to need it.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short-ish chapter guess considering how long the more recent chapters have been. But that's what you guys get when I've been procrastinating all day (I couldn't be bothered to revise)

“Mr Watson, please pay attention!”

John snapped his head back to try and focus on what Mr Kennan was saying. He really shouldn’t have been surprised, but Sherlock wasn’t there. Again. S _eriously, what the HELL could possibly have gone wrong this time? This is getting fucking ridiculous._

“Excuse me, sir, I have a-um-dentist appointment. I really have to go,” John quickly began sweeping his books into his bag and set off towards the door. He wasn’t planning on sitting around this time.

“The why didn’t you tell me before the lesson?”

“I didn’t realise I had one.”

John skidded to a halt, flung the door open, and rushed into his corridor outside before anyone could tell him otherwise. He was a mess, mind reeling at all the possibilities. Despite only having spent a limited amount of time with the taller teen, he knew that range of brutality he received could span into some quite horrific areas. He began weaving his was through the maze of corridors, past all of the science classrooms and into the main reception area. He was only a short distance from the library, the only place he could think of where Sherlock might be. The librarian didn’t even spare his a second glance as he began exploring the empty library for any sign of his friend. Sure enough, as he rounded the last bookcase, he hurtled into another figure, sending them both sprawling across the floor.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the other person, before letting out an annoyed sign.

Sherlock was glaring up at him, idly sweeping his hair out of his face.

“Watch where you’re going, John. You could seriously hurt somebody.”

“Well I wasn’t really expecting to run into you here! Why the hell weren’t you in biology?!”

He roughly grabbed Sherlock’s arm and yanked him to his feet.

“Jesus Christ, careful!” Sherlock whined, shaking himself free of Johns grasp and rubbing at his arm. The one that John had just grabbed. The one supposed to be in sling.

“Where the fuck did your sling go?” John screeched, prompting a confused look form the librarian who was now staring at them and listening avidly to their ongoing argument. Sherlock gave him a sheepish look before saying

“I was just on my way to get a new one-“

“I don’t care. Where did the other one go?”

“I… lost it?” Sherlock suggested, backing away slightly

“No, you definitely didn’t lose it. What happened?”

“Alright, alright. Sebastian took it,” He relented, eyes wide in annoyance at being so relentlessly pestered

“Now can I just-“

“No, you can’t ‘just’ anything. We’re going to report this. Now.”

John took hold of Sherlock’s arm again, ignoring his furious protests, and dragged him out of the library, past the startled librarian, and out to the main reception. The short receptionist bustled over and gave them a puzzled look.

“Can I help you boys?”

“No, everything’s fine, we were on our way to-“Sherlock panicked, still trying desperately to unsuccessfully prise himself from Johns grip

“No everything is not fine,” John hissed before turning back to the receptionist, “We’re here to report bullying.”

The receptionist- _I think her name’s Linda?_ \- gave a quick nod before promptly escorting them to the student councillor. John knew from experience that from here everything would hopefully be sorted out. He’d had to drag too many people here over the years to report various incidents and this was no different. The councillor, Miss Lassiter, was in her mid-thirties and generally a well feared and respected member of the school. Pupils would always think twice about crossing her and, below the head, she was the last person you wanted to deal with, but she was also one of the kindest people John had ever met. She really knew what she was dealing with when it came to these things and would never give up on a pupil, no matter how bleak their situation. John taking the seat near the door, Sherlock the one nearest the desk, she turned to them.

“So, I understand you are here to report some bullying that has taken place?” She asked gently

Sherlock shot John a venomous glare before answering “Yes.”

“Would you care to say what exactly has happened?”

John noticed Sherlock’s shoulders sag and he pressed himself closer to the chair. He seemed a bit skittish, as though he didn’t want to answer. Miss Lassiter noticed.

“Don’t fret. I will deal with everything accordingly. All you need to do is tell me what happened; you don’t need to confront them.”

John saw Sherlock take a deep breath, composing himself, and he began.

-

Around an hour later, they both stumbled out of the office into an awaiting sea of students. John was stunned. _How could anyone ever do that? And how could he stay silent about all of this?_ Sherlock was hugging his wrist to his chest as he still had no sling and began pushing his way through the crowd, avoiding all eye contact. By the looks of it, he was trying to get away from him. John was sure he would never be forgiven for this even though he may have helped solve Sherlock’s problem. He began shoving his way past everyone, following the head of black curls bobbing above the crowd. He finally caught up with Sherlock at the medical room where he was loudly announcing to the school nurse that ‘I really need a sling this instant or I’ll be forced to report your incompetence.’ Unsurprisingly, he came away a few minutes later with a new sling and angrily tried to shove past John, now standing in the doorway.

“John, move. I have lessons to go to,” he hissed, trying again to get past, but to no avail

“What lesson?”

“Why should it matter?”

“Because I’m going to escort you there.”

Sherlock froze and stared at John, mouth wide, before he quickly snapped it shut again

“I’m not a child. I am capable of going to my lessons alone.”

“I don’t care. Judging by everything I heard there, there isn’t actually much chance of you making it to wherever the hell you’re going. So I’m escorting you.”

John stared up at Sherlock with a glare hoping to match his friends’ icy look of resignation but was shocked when, suddenly, all of the proud power Sherlock held with himself disappeared. It seemed to just melt away, escape his grasp, and in its place stood a just frightened, skittish boy. All he’d been through was suddenly visible in the way he held himself and on the expression he was wearing. It just spoke of someone who had been through too much and couldn’t take it anymore. He was now the person John expected to see if anyone but Sherlock was in this situation, and he hated it. All joking aside, he now really did look like a lost puppy just awaiting the next kick.

“I’m not a child,” he sighed, before weakly pushing past John and making his was down the corridor.

He knew he shouldn’t, he **really** shouldn’t, but he now deeply regretted his actions. _Maybe I should have talked him round to talking to somebody, instead of just dragging him._ John just stood stared after him, not wanting to follow anymore. He couldn’t bring himself to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a strange chapter I guess, but we will get some of the method behind the madness next chapter. As you can proably tell, Sherlock isn't really to happy about Johns meddling.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock isn't exactly in the best of places here, but I'm sure he'll be fine. These characters seem to govern themselves while I'm writing so really don't know. The chapters are getting shorter again, damn it!

Sherlock stared at the blank ceiling, lying on the floor of the flat. The dust swirled above him, creating ghost-like images- a natural theatre. He’d always liked the theatre. His parents liked the theatre too. He’d been thinking about them a lot lately. He’d had enough time to, seeing as he hadn’t been at school for the rest of the week. The day after he had reported everything, he’d woken up to find himself unable to make himself do anything. Even the simplest tasks, like making a cup of tea, had become unachievable. That was the reason he was lying on the floor. The feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was worse. Mycroft had phoned him multiple times, asking why he wasn’t at school. Nosy git. Eventually, he’d just given up phoning; Sherlock missed it slightly as it had given him something to do other than be uncontrollably idle. Mrs Hudson had called in a few times to ask if he was alright. _Why is everyone suddenly worried?_ She had left each time after his prolonged silences although she had come back to give him the occasional cup of coffee and a few scones. He sighed and closed his eyes, blocking out the weak light and closing the curtains on the dusty theatre. What was happening? Why had his mind suddenly just given up, abandoned him? It was the only thing he had ever been able to count on and it had just slipped through his fingers and gone to somewhere he didn’t want to follow. An unfamiliar fog had set in, causing him to take the wrong turns, trip, fall, unable to reach where he needed to be. He had never felt true fear, but being lost inside his own mind was the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.

Unable to tell how much time had passed, a weak knock at the door broke him from his state of utter self-loathing and cluelessness. He had heard anyone approach, no warning as to the welcome interruption, no way of telling who was there. He could just ignore it, push whoever it was even further away than he already had. But he knew, even through this pitiful fog, that if he staved off human interaction for too long, he would be unable to get back. Lost forever.

“It’s open.”

He heard the heavy door scraping across the floor, the sound unsettling the thick silence that had taken up residence alongside him in the flat. He couldn’t be bothered to look over to see who it was so just continued to lie there, anticipating the wave criticism that was sure to come.

“Why are you on the floor?”

 _Oh._ Rolling his head to the side, he found himself staring at the worn-out shoes of John Watson. Why was he here…

“Is it Saturday? You work on Saturday.”

John gave a weak nod, eyes roaming the bare flat, taking in the unkempt curtains and dirty floor. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the glittering metal dusts and charred canvas littering the kitchen, but he asked nothing of it. As usual, his experiment had gone up in flames and Sherlock had been unable to clear it away. It had been there a few days now and the metal dust was beginning to migrate to the rest of the flat giving everything a dull shimmer. He couldn’t even remember what it had been for. John shuffled over, crouching down next to him, apron dislodging a little of the thin layer of dust gathering on his arms. His eyes spoke of concern that Sherlock was unwilling to believe was meant for him.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock suddenly found he just wanted to scream at him, _No! I’m not okay! I don’t know what to do, I can’t do anything anyway. Everything I do, it fails. Nothing is working for me. I can’t handle it anymore. You can’t help, no one can help me, you don’t understand._

“I’m fine.”

John gave a small smile

“Sherlock, I might not be half as smart as you, but I can tell when someone is lying. I’ve had to deal with enough depressed people to know there’s something wrong.”

Sherlock stared back at the ceiling. At least that couldn’t read him. They sat in silence, the fog now moving in on his vision as well until everything was too bright and he had to shut his eyes. He heard John shuffle around on the floor, clearly trying to get more comfortable. _Maybe I should get a sofa…_

“Shall I get you a coffee?”

He didn’t notice he’d agreed- or that John had left- until a few minutes later when the smell of fresh coffee invaded the flat. It was enough to cause him to open his eyes and glance towards the door. John was standing there, but wasn’t holding anything

“Do you want to come down to the café? I mean, you could always stay up here, but it’s much more comfortable.”

 _I guess a change of scenery could be rewarding... maybe._ He tried to bring himself to a sitting position but, having not moved in a while, found his movements to be quite rusty and mechanic. He didn’t like it. He was almost standing, despite the pain it caused him, when a sudden wave of thought hit him, knocking him off balance. _What’s the point? All that will happen is that I’ll say something, John will hate me and I’ll end up back up here, lying on the floor, slowly wasting away. Why should I bother now when I know perfectly well what will happen if I move. Better to just stay here._

“No, it’s not.”

John was by him, holding him up by his un-injured arm, concern written on his face and lacing his voice. He hadn’t even realised he’d started to fall- nor that he’d said that out loud.

“It’s really not. I won’t hate you. Remember everything you told to me? I didn’t hate you then, even when I knew you could read me like an open book. Nothing you could say would make me hate you.”

The distant sound of the café’s bell broke his monologue. Some deep, instinctive part of his brain seemed to take over for a few seconds and he found himself standing, before it quickly retreated back into the shifting fog. It was his body telling him to go, to just get out of this place. Even if it ends in disaster and nothing changes, it was better to have tried to escape than to have wandered lost forever. This with Johns words made him choose. _Better to have tried to escape..._

“I’ve got to go. Mrs Hudson will kill me if I let a customer down,” John muttered, glancing up at him, “You going to join me?”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be my second favourite chapter. Scrap everything I said about not being able to update, I was lying.This took me nearly four hours to write and I don't think I'm ever actually going to get any revision done so I'll just blame this when I fail everything :)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was actually not as busy as I thought I was today! So, as usual, I didn't do any revision whatsoever and did this instead. Again, a shorter chapter but be warned! This ends on a big-ish cliffhanger cliffhanger. Sorry, but I just really wanted to write the next bit in Sherlocks POV as I've been planning git a while and didn't want to mess up the order again :(

Sherlock seemed to be lost in his own world, staring into the murky depths of his coffee as though it held all the answers his many problems. It wasn’t something John would have expected from him, but he really couldn’t second-guess anything when it came to Sherlock. It had been something of a shock to see his flat. He’d at least expected there to have been some furniture, but no. Nothing. Completely bare. It was actually quite a sad thought to linger on. When he hadn’t shown up for school again Johns mind had run wild with all the insane possibilities. They had ranged from ‘He's run away again hasn't he?’ to ‘Oh god, he's dead’. Of course, he’d never really believed the second one… sort of. Seeing him was a relief, no matter what state he was in. Getting him to come down to the café was a success-it looked like he hadn’t moved in days, let alone eaten or had anything to drink.

“Are you actually going to drink hat?” John joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock ignored him, opting to carry on staring into his drink.

“Hello?” John waved his hand in front of Sherlock face, causing him to blink rapidly and stare back at him “Thought I’d lost you there, mate.”

He turned back to his coffee. John sighed; the few times he had seemed to get closer to the other teen seem to have had no effect after all. Or maybe…

“Is this my fault?”

Sherlock shot him a weary glance “Is what your fault?”

John gestured to him “This. Why you’re acting so… out of it.”

A slightly puzzled expression had taken residence on Sherlock face.

“You know, because I made you report everything.”

A sudden flash of recognition shot across his face, followed by a look of betrayal. _Has he… forgotten?_

“Which I’m really sorry for. I couldn’t stop thinking about it afterwards. I really shouldn’t have forced you to do that. I just thought it might fix…”

John trailed off as Sherlock glared at him.

“Fixed?” he spat “how will it have fixed anything?”

Now it was Johns turn to be confused.

“Well, the teachers will be able to help stop you getting attacked at school now.”

“Exactly! They will stop me getting **physically attacked**. They will be looking out for injuries on me. But John, you can’t see most of the injuries I get. They are **psychological**. I can deal with physical injuries; my body is just transport for my mind. It’s all I can rely on. I can’t handle psychological abuse, not again; it was bad enough last time- SHIT.”

He suddenly buried his face in his hands, shaking his head and drawing his knees up to his chest, despite the fact he was sitting on a very precarious stool.

“What’s wrong?” John asked quickly, setting a reassuring hand on Sherlock shoulder. Big mistake.

Sherlock screeched and jerked his arm away, only to overbalance and fall to the floor. Jesus Christ. John made his way around the counter to help, but Sherlock had already lifted himself back up. He looked shaken, face ghostly pale, eyes wide and hands shaking as he brushed himself down. Sitting back on his stool, he closed his eyes, breathing heavily. John made his way back behind the counter.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated, this time refraining from touching Sherlock.

“I just… opened a door,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

_A door? What door? What the HELL is happening?_

“Door?”

“Yes, door,” Sherlock snapped

“What-“

“In my mind palace. It’s a memory technique used to better organise your mind. I opened a door.”

If anything, this just caused John even more confusion. He had no idea what was going on as this conversation just got stranger and stranger, but he just decided to roll with it.

“A door to what?”

“I can’t tell you.”

John tried to mask his disappointment. He’d actually been getting somewhere, getting to know how this guy worked. But no, he’d been shut out. Again. He suddenly realised that almost every time he had tried talked to Sherlock about anything besides school or his bullying, he had been dismissed. Why?

“You can tell me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I… don’t want to remember it. That would mean I’d have to relive it again and I barely made it the first time.”

_Right, there is definitely something going on here._

“Seriously, you can tell me. You can trust me. I’m not about to tell anyone.”

The pained look on Sherlock face slipped slightly. He was considering it and John grasped at the opportunity.

“Usually talking about it helps. That’s what I’ve learned anyway.”

“I’ve never had anyone to talk to about anything. Does it really work?”

The vulnerable look was back on his face, the one John had seen when he last saw him, the one that made his want to help as much as he possibly could to make it alright. _He’s never had anyone to talk to._

“Yes. It works,” John gave a weak smile “You’ve got me to talk to now.”

Sherlock nodded a few times before composing himself.

“I guess it's worth a try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in short, the reasons for all his problems will be unveiled next chapter. Should be interesting...  
> (I'm really dragging this out. Sorry about that. Am I being really over-dramatic? I am, aren't I. Who cares, I like it!)  
> God this chapter's shit.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go. Have a shitty background as to why a lot of people hate him. Including himself.

Sherlock gave a sad smile as he forced himself to go through the door. Surrounding him were memories-so many memories. Some he had missed, some he had never wanted to recall. He opened his eyes again to look at John. He knew that if John was there, he’d try and help if he couldn’t control himself anymore. _Just say everything, you never have, and if you don’t now, you never will…_

“Well, as you found out today, I came to our school at the start of year 10. I was expelled from my last school, along with Sebastian. We came from that other school down the road. I’ve deleted the name.”

“What, the private school?”

“Yes. We were expelled because we were... fighting- although it wasn’t really fighting, more like me being beaten to a bloody pulp. I may have thrown a lit Bunsen burner at him.”

“Why were you fighting?” John asked

“I’ll get to that,” Sherlock snapped back “Now do you want to know what happened or not?” John shut up. “We were fighting because of something that had happened to a friend of mine. My only friend, really. That’s what Sebastian meant when he said that ‘my habits and friends don’t mix’. He had blamed me, along with everyone else.”

He stopped here and took a deep breath. _This is going to be more difficult than I thought._

“Do you remember someone called Carl Powers?”

John seemed to search around for a few agonisingly long seconds before recognition dawned on his face.

“He was the one who drowned wasn’t he?”

That stung. Sherlock gave a barely noticeable nod.

“He died in a swimming race thing- I don’t know. That kind of stuff didn't interest me He shouldn’t have gone. He was in a bad way for weeks beforehand. He kept having these seizures; no one knew what it was, even me. The doctors still hadn’t reached a conclusion so he took that as a reason to carry on as normal. He had one during the race and… died.”

During this speech, he’d unknowingly drawn his knees up to his chest again. John was staring at him with almost enough pity to choke him. _Got to carry on._

“Everyone blamed me. They all knew I was a freak, knew about my experiments and strange habits. They hadn’t known about the seizures like I had and had said it was one of my experiments gone wrong, that it was my fault he died. I would have things thrown at me; people chase me, hiss things at me wherever I went. I hadn’t had that kind of thing happen to me before then. There were enough strange people at that school to make my habits seem almost acceptable. But the second he died, I was singled out. Everyone suddenly saw me as a murderer. I hadn’t done anything! I had been the only one to actually try and stop him competing! But no, everyone glossed over that; they had no one else to blame.”

He didn’t have any tears to shed. He didn’t do that anymore, but the ones he had cried back then stung his eyes for the second time.

“It went on for so long that I even started to blame myself. If I’d tried harder to stop him going, he’d be alive. Maybe one of my experiments had been the cause of those seizures, I just didn’t know it. Maybe I had subconsciously done something to murder him. I even started to blame HIM for it. If he’d never befriended me, I wouldn’t be going through this torment. I was losing it, slowly drifting away from everyone, becoming more and more of an outcast. One day, Sebastian said something. I can’t remember what. I don’t want to remember. But we fought each other and got expelled. Then, on top of everything else, the problems with my parents started. They had always hated me, but now that I had actually been kicked out of a private school, they loathed me. I was neglected. Mycroft had to find me a different school to go to because they refused. When I said something out of line or did something they didn’t like, they would punish me physically instead of verbally. To defend myself, I began to lock everything away, starting with those memories. My mind was a mess; every room of my mind palace was just filled with self-loathing and the hate from those around me. I couldn’t navigate it, couldn’t find anything. When I came to our school, I thought everything would get better. God I was wrong. There, I stick out like a sore thumb. And when Sebastian came to the same school? He serves as a constant reminder of what I’ve been through, what I’ve done to myself and those around me. I didn’t want friends because I didn’t want to hurt them. I didn’t want them to go the same way. But I’m such a selfish git because, above all that, I didn’t want to hurt myself again. And then you helped me and I don’t know what to do anymore.”

John was lost for words. He had paled while Sherlock had been talking and was now standing with his mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide. Sherlock didn’t care what he had to say. Nothing he had to say would change anything because John had been wrong. This hadn’t helped. It had made everything worse. All this had achieved was to resurface old emotions, burn the forgotten images into his eyelids so now whenever he blinked, he was just transported back to the worst moments of his life. The room was suddenly to hot, he couldn't breath and he needed to get out. Swinging his legs off the chair, he made his way towards the door, striding past John and out into the cool air of London. He didn’t care where he was going anymore, he knew this place well enough now to get back without a problem. He just needed some time alone to bury all of this again. He found small comfort in the misty smell of the recent rainfall. The fog still heavily occupying his mind began slowly to blow away as the wind whipped across his face and through his hair. His phone ringing suddenly brought him back to reality, but he didn’t need to check it. Of course it would be John. John had said it would help. He’d lied. Why had he told him anyway? He’d been seeking no kind of comfort, no form of consoling. He’d buried the part of himself that would have needed that. _It had been a moment of weakness. You had been... emotional, unfortunately, because you couldn’t access anything in your mind and instinct had kicked in. Never let it happen again, that was a disaster._ A passing couple nudged his arm and he sprung away reflexively, gaining an odd stare from those around him. He wrapped his arm currently not in a sling around his torso and carried on, faster, to get away from them, heart pounding. There were more people around him, more to walk into, more to stare. He suddenly collided with another young man who glared at him and pushed his way past. Why did everyone hate him? Throughout his mind and the current reality he was in, people were looking at him like he was a virus, swerving to avoid him. _God, I must look so unstable, mad, who would want to be near me?_ His eyes roamed the faces of those around him, looking for a familiar face, any familiar face. He didn’t care who anymore, he just didn’t want to be alone here, with these unknown people silently judging him. He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

He shrieked and pulled himself out of the grasp of the stranger. Her hazel eyes widened at his reaction and she took a step closer. _No, no no no no no. Don’t touch me; don’t touch me, I’m unstable, don’t touch me, I could hurt you. Please get away, run, I could hurt you, I don’t want to hurt anyone._ He continued to back away, getting further and further from the woman until she turned away from him, a confused and slightly scared expression painting her face.

He felt a brick wall collide with his back and he shot forward in terror. _It could fall and then I would hurt the people here. It would be my fault. It’s always my fault._ He broke into a run. He had to get away, far away. Anywhere. The road provided little obstacle as he sprinted across it, dodging the cars that blared their horns angrily at him, cursing him, making the world louder and more violent in their voices. He hoped his parents weren’t there; they would kill him for being so reckless. They hated him. Everyone hated him. Everyone had always hated him. Why did everyone hate him?

He could suddenly feel softer ground beneath his shoes. He was in a park. Carl had liked parks. He’d liked the peacefulness of them. Why had he left him? Why had his parents left him? Why did everyone leave him? He brought himself to an abrupt halt, sprawling forwards onto the grass and just lying there. What was the point in moving? John had been wrong. There was no point in moving. It was better to just lie there and let himself waste away. _Everyone would be better off without me. They could just carry on as normal. I don’t matter. I matter to nobody._

The peoples comments as they passed him, lying still on the grass, burned into his brain. ‘Probably passed out drunk. Idiot. That’s what drink will do’ to ‘Do you think he’s alright? I’m sure he’s fine. No decent person would just lie there anyway, so who cares?’. No on helped. No one cared enough to help. Of course they didn’t. Why would they. Suddenly, the sound of his name being called sounded through the evening air like a gun shot. It wasn’t John. He could hear footsteps running towards him, slipping on the wet ground and somebody landed next to him with a thump. He couldn’t be bothered to run. He’d already run and hadn’t escaped anything.

“You okay mate?”

It was that guy. Johns friend. The one who’d helped him find the flat. Sherlock ignored him. He didn’t want to tell him that, no, he wasn’t okay. He didn’t know what was happening to him. He didn’t want his confusion to spread. He felt a hand softly touch his shoulder. Tensing, he swiped at the hand, screaming into the ground

“Don’t touch me!”

The hand was jerked away but he didn’t leave, instead he called to something or someone called Iris. He didn’t have long to wait to find out what as, a few seconds later, there was another thump on his other side and something gently nudged his head. Looking up, he found himself staring into the face of a dog. He liked dogs- maybe because his parents had hated them so he’d gone out of his way to annoy them. He shuffled into a sitting position, the dog-a husky- staring at him in curiosity. His brain was still a mess, but he managed to string together a non-threatening couple of words with extreme effort.

“Hello Iris.”

Her tail waved frantically as she continued to nudge at his face. He let a weary smile break through his veil of panic and scratched her behind the ears. The three of them sat like that until the sunset painted the sky a fiery orange and the park was throw into shadows. Each stoke of Iris’ slate grey fur soothed him, becoming quite therapeutic. The waves of hate in his mind began to recede ever so slightly, clearing a few essential rooms and allowing him to function again, little by little. An obnoxiously loud ringtone made him jump and he looked around frantically for the source only to realise it was only... George’s? phone. He quickly barked a few words down the phone before hanging up. He’d said something about how he’d found Sherlock. That he was safe.

“George?” Sherlock stuttered

He rolled his eyes “You know what? Just call me Lestrade. Maybe you’ll remember that. What is it?”

“I-um- don’t really trust myself walking back alone. Could you-“

“Yeah, I’ll go back with you. I was planning on it anyway,” Lestrade smiled

Sherlock gave a distracted nod and tried to pull himself to his feet. His front was almost completely coated in mud and his hair was either sticking to his head or sticking up at random angles. _I must look awful_. Greg hauled himself off the ground as well, brushing of the mud on his legs before heading off. Sherlock followed slowly with Iris, hand still buried in the thick fur around her neck.

When they finally reached Baker Street, Sherlock saw a figure running towards them from the shop. A few seconds later and John had hurtled into their mist, eyes wide in panic.

“What happened? I was really worried!” Sherlock saw that, behind John, Mrs Hudson was also making her way towards them.

He stayed silent. _Worried?_

“Don’t worry John. I found him, he’s okay. No physical injuries,” Lestrade was saying

John was nodding, face pale, glancing up at him every few seconds as if to determine he was still there and hadn’t run off. Mrs Hudson reached them then and she immediately began to fuss over him, commenting on his dirty clothes, how he shouldn’t have just run off like that, about how concerned they all were.

“John here phoned almost everyone he knew to tell them to keep an eye out for you, dear,” she said “He was convinced that you’d run off because of him, though what he could have done…”

She trailed off and pulled him into a tight hug. He had to push down his immediate reaction to pull away and stayed as he was for a few seconds before she moved away and headed back to the shop, calling back for him to be there soon so she could wash his clothes. Sherlock cast his gaze to John who was staring at him now.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It was yours to keep to yourself if you wanted it like that. I just meddled, and then you ran off and I just…” he ran a hand through his hair and coughed before turning to Lestrade “thanks for finding him. Really.”

“No problem but I’ve got to head home now, if that’s alright. See you soon, yeah?”

John nodded and muttered a goodbye before heading back towards the café as well. Sherlock rushed after him. Reaching Speedys, John was just putting his coat on to go home too. He didn’t really know what to say. John had been concerned enough to actually get almost everyone he knew to look for him.

“I’ve got to go. My parents got back today and will be wondering where I am. You alright?” John asked

“I’m fine. I just…” He couldn’t tell John about what had really happened, he’d just blame himself even more. He didn't want him to blame himself, it wasn’t really his fault

“Needed some time to clear my head,” he finished with a forced smile.

“Well feel free to call me if…” John searched around for the right words “If you need to talk or something.”

 _Because look how well that ended last time._ Then John headed out, waving at him through he door before walking home. Sherlock could feel a migraine coming on- it always seemed to happen when his emotions took over- and forced himself back up to his flat, flinging himself onto his bed. Perhaps he’d phone John tomorrow. Better than lying there feeling sorry for himself all day, and that was sure to happen. Maybe he would understand him better now. He knew more about him than even his parents did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter again! I wrote some of it to calm down after being chased across Dartmoor by wild horses. That was fun. Better mention that at this point, he hasn't had Redbeard. Also better mention that- in this version- there was no foul play involved in Carl's death. He actually did just have a seizure and drown, he wasn't murdered. Hope this is alright, I'm not really sure about this chapter. Please leave comments with feedback (I could always change all of this in the future if its THAT bad)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! New chapter, this one took me FOREVER to write (and by forever I mean about 6 hours).

“Tell me **exactly** what happened.”

“Ok! John, calm down-“

“I am calm! Just tell me what happened!” John screamed down the phone

“I don’t know! I only saw him in the park!” Greg yelled back

“Well tell me what happened in the park then.”

“I was there walking Iris, got your text, and then he was just… there. On the other said of the park, sprinting away from the road. He fell on his face and just lay there. He looked really out of control, mad, really.”

“And what did you do?”

“I went over, slipped on the fucking grass and asked him if he was alright.”

“And?”

“He ignored me so I tapped his shoulder. He went crazy and started screaming at me. He was lying on his face though, so I didn’t really hear what he was saying. I just stayed there and called Iris over. She nudged his head and he sat up. He looked **awful**.”

“What kind of awful?”

“He was coated in mud but I could still tell how pale he was. It was a scary pale, like a dead sort of pale. His eyes were huge, bloodshot-“

“How was he acting? It’s important.”

“Um…he was very jittery. Almost jumped out his skin when you phoned me. Heavy breathing. I don’t know, he was just very panicky-“

“Oh shit, Greg! Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit-“

“Any other words you can use there?”

“This isn’t a joke Greg! This is my fault!”

“I still don’t understand. What’s your fault?”

“By the sounds of it, I think he might have had a panic attack of some sort. Which I triggered because I was being nosy. I was prying into stuff he clearly didn’t want to talk about. It’s my fault.”

“John, let’s not jump to conclusions. He probably just needed some time alone. Clear his head. That’s what he told you, right?”

“But-“

“No. Stop it. I’m going to come and collect you and we’ll visit him. Now. Agreed?”

“I guess…”

Greg hung up. John threw the phone onto his bed. It was Sunday morning. His parents were downstairs talking to Harry about her behaviour and what it could mean for them. He was sick of it. The air in the house had hung too heavy since they’d arrived back. Of course, John had been happy to see them- his medical tutoring could now continue. Harry, however, had been dreading it. She knew her drinking problem would be brought up and, surprise surprise, it had. His parents’ anger had made them irritable and Harry had been very nervous. God, he needed to get out of this house. A sudden loud knock on the door sent him racing down the stairs and, flinging the door open whilst shouting a hurried goodbye, he ran past a startled Greg and hopped into the familiar van parked outside. Greg followed, a little more slowly, and got into the driver’s seat, starting up the engine.

“Christ John, I’ve never seen you move so fast! Are you seriously that worried?”

John smiled, covering over his frantic exterior “No, I just needed to get out the house.”

Greg raised an eyebrow

“Harry and her drinking and then my parents and their anger at Harrys drinking.”

Greg nodded and focused on the road. There was a sudden excited bark from behind him and he turned round to find Iris staring into his face.

“Why did you bring her?” John sighed. She couldn’t stay in that van so they would be forced to take her with them. _Christ._

“Hey, hear me out before you judge me. First, I couldn’t leave her alone in my flat. She would have destroyed everything. Second, Sherlock seemed to like her yesterday. She calmed him down a bit. Thought it would be quiet good to have her there in case… something happens.”

John nodded. That’s was actually quite a good idea. Sort of.

 -

Arriving outside Speedys, John could already hear the faint sound of a violin. _Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If he’s playing the violin then he must be fine-_ Greg’s elbow connected with his shoulder, pushing him forwards.

“John, even if he’s fine, you’ll feel better for visiting. You won’t be as worried. Go on.”

Iris was running circles around his feet, making it difficult to move without falling over. They couldn’t go through the café, no animals allowed- shit. Mrs Hudson might not even allow them in. The door swung open.

“John! What are you doing here? It’s a Sunday, the café’s closed. No chance of you working today,” Mrs Hudson smiled up at them

“’Morning. We were just visiting Sherlock. Is that alright?” Greg asked, peering around John

“Oh yes, that’s fine. It’ll be nice for him to have some visitors. Never has any.”

She stepped out of the doorway and they all bustled into the hall, where Mrs Hudson headed back to her flat. Greg gave John a thumbs up, signalling to Iris, and they made their way up the stairs. It was still just as dusty as it had always been- John would never have guessed there was someone now living there. The sound of the violin got louder as they neared the flat and John remembered when he had been in a similar situation a few weeks ago. He hadn’t really known anything about Sherlock then. God, how that had changed. John nervously knocked at the door of the flat and the music came to a jagged end, leaving an unfinished note hanging sourly in the air. He heard Sherlock loudly stumble towards the door before it was thrown open.

Sherlock looked awful. Deep purple circles ringed his eyes in stark contrast to the rest of his face which was a ghostly pale. His hair was still sticking up every which way casting sharp shadows across his face, making it appear more gaunt than it already was. His sling was still coated in mud and his other arm was hanging limply by his side, violin swaying carelessly. Behind him, the curtains were draw and the flat was almost in pitch darkness. He blinked a few times before finding his voice.

“Why are you here?”

John quickly dismissed his appearance, determined not to be pushed away by appearing too worried.

“Hi Sherlock! I just wanted to check up on you and see if, maybe, we could catch up with the schoolwork you missed again. We didn’t get the chance yesterday.”

Good excuse.

“So why is Lestrade with you?”

John glanced around at Greg, raising an eyebrow. Greg just shrugged and answered

“I was in the area and felt like visiting.”

Sherlock nodded distractedly a few times before opening the door properly to let them pass. From what John could see, the flat was an even messier than yesterday. Even more strange items had been laid out in the kitchen alongside whatever had already been there although the appearance was no different. Everything was still burned. Sherlock had gone over to the windows and, hesitating slightly, opened the curtains with a flourish. Greg was staring around, much like John had yesterday, taking in the bare flat. Sherlock turned to them but stood in awkward silence, wondering what to do.

“Um… would you like some tea?” he stuttered

Greg hummed in agreement causing a panicked look to cross Sherlocks face.

“I’ll do it,” John chipped in, heading to the kitchen and dealing a swift blow to Greg’s chest with his elbow as he passed him. They weren’t here for this.

After putting on the kettle, John turned back to everyone. Greg was hovering nervously by the door, Iris still in the corridor. Sherlock was absentmindedly tapping on his violin, occasionally glancing up at the two of them. John could almost feel the awkwardness of it all, like a fourth person in the room.

“So how many lessons did you miss?” John asked brightly

Sherlock didn’t move and barely a second passed before he’d answered.

“I need to copy the notes from two biology lessons.” His tone was clipped, like he didn’t want to be distracted from the ‘reason’ John was there.

John nodded, the sudden whistling from the kettle making him jump. Sherlock glanced up in panic before his tired mask was put back in place and he continued to stare into nothingness. _This is going to be more difficult than I thought…_

Almost the instant he’d turned his back, there was a frantic bark followed by a shouted swear from Greg and a loud thump. John spun round, confused, and had to refrain himself from laughing. _I really can’t laugh, not now_ -

Greg clearly didn’t realise this. He was laughing his head off, face in hands. Sherlock was lying on the floor of the flat, a horrifically confused look plastered on his face, with Iris sitting on top of him, nuzzling his face with a joyful bark every so often. _Oh my god, he looks like a child being crushed by one of those huge toys you win at fairgrounds._ John could feel his face fighting against his mind, desperately trying to laugh. _You can’t laugh, don’t laugh, **please** don’t laugh._ A muffled protest of Sherlock’s, though, added with him trying to sit up but failing miserably, finally broke him. Before he knew it, he was crouching on the floor of the kitchen, face smothered by his jacket, desperately trying to control his laughter. It seemed to be infectious as, a few seconds later; John could have sworn he heard Sherlock give a small laugh. It was short lived however, as Mrs Hudson suddenly burst in.

“What’s going on here? Why are you being so loud?” John looked up at her just as she spotted Iris “And what is that animal doing in my building? John, you should know better! You know perfectly well that there are no animals allowed here,” she scowled.

Greg was trying to pull a straight face, John had quickly fallen silent and Sherlock was being just as passive as ever.

“Sorry, we just couldn’t leave her anywhere so had to-“Greg began

“No, Gregory, you didn’t ‘have to’ anything. Get it out. Now.”

“Don’t worry Mrs Hudson. I will personally take any responsibility for any damages she causes, although I can assure you that won’t happen. She is perfectly well trained,” Sherlock suddenly piped up.

Mrs Hudson glanced between the three of them. She clearly trusted Sherlock’s word more than Greg’s, however, as she sighed before heading back downstairs, shouting back up to them that the beast had better be gone soon.

“Thanks mate,” Greg grinned, offering Sherlock a hand and still trying to repress the odd laugh “She would have ripped the inside of my van to shreds if I’d had to leave her there.”

Sherlock ignored his offer of help and instead remained where he was, running a hand through the fur on Iris’ head and turning to face John.

“You are terrible at lying John. You don’t even have your school stuff with you.”

 _Oh shit._ John rubbed a hand through his hair and looked sheepishly back into Sherlock’s pale face.

“Alright. I lied.”

Greg was glancing between them, smiling at some joke he would probably never share with anyone. _Thank you Greg, for making this situation even worse than it already is._

“So why are you here?”

“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” John sighed

Sherlock looked disappointed and pushed Iris off him, allowing him to stand up. He brushed off the stray dog hairs that had gathered on his t-shirt and looked icily at John. He couldn’t read anything in that gaze.

“I’m not one of your patients, John. You aren’t a doctor yet.”

“What?” John spluttered “What do you mean ‘patient’? Why would I think of you as a patient?”

“You have analysed my every move since you entered the flat. The way I’ve walked, my tone of voice, how I look, everything. You are trying to determine what is wrong with me.”

John was lost for words. How had he noticed that? Like, seriously, how?

“When you put it like that then of course it’s going to sound like I’m treating you as a patient! I’m not; I’m treating you as a **friend**. Friends look out for each other, Sherlock, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I was just worried.”

The words hung around them. Greg was now staring wide-eyed at John, clearly a little shocked by his sudden outburst. Sherlock on the other hand looked completely perplexed.

“So friends are supposed to worry about each other’s problems? So I’m supposed to be concerned about him getting a point on his driver’s licence?” He pointed a long finger at Greg, who stared back in astonishment “Or how you are dealing with a family feud at the moment? Because both of those will pass eventually. There is no point in worrying, John, because it accomplishes nothing. Don’t worry about my current… mental condition. It won’t help. You actually have to do something to help, not sit on the side-lines, treating me like a case study for your medical career.”

“Sherlock, you’re wrong. I was doing something. I came here knowing perfectly well what had happened to you and I came with advice. Greg brought Iris along because he noticed how that seemed to calm you down yesterday. We are doing something, so don’t tell me that I’m using you as a ‘case study’ when I’m not.”

They glared at each other for a few seconds, each processing the others words. Finally, John could no longer hold the icy stare he was receiving.

“I’ll finish making the tea,” he hissed.

-

After a few minutes of aggressively preparing tea, they were all perched around the kitchen. Greg was now having to try and cover a stupid smile that appeared on his face every time he glanced up at either of them. John was trying to calm down by listing all the different parts of the brain he could remember over and over again on a never ending loop, and Sherlock was looking at his mug of tea like it had just insulted him the most horrific way imaginable. It was a miracle it hadn’t dissolved into a pile of smouldering ashes. Greg took an overly-dramatic deep breath.

“So. Are you two going to make up on your own or am I going to have to force you to hug one another?”

Sherlock switched his gaze to Greg, John mimicking him. His grin disappeared.

“Alright, I won’t force you to hug! But seriously, you two are acting like a pair of five-year-olds. It’s ridiculous.”

John smiled in spite of himself.

“He’s right; we are being a bit immature. We’re sixteen,” he turned to face Sherlock, offering his hand “Friends?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes “This is stupid.”

Greg groaned “Just shake on it! Jesus Christ, who cares if it’s stupid? There’s no one here.”

Sherlock sighed before reluctantly shaking John’s hand.

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

Greg almost choked on his tea. _What the hell._

“Can I ask what happened yesterday?”

Sherlock rubbed a weary hand over his eyes

“Then will you stop asking questions?”

“Promise.”

 -

Listening to Sherlock recount the entire fiasco, John was left in no doubt. It was definitely his fault. Sherlock had had some sort of panic attack because of him. _I should **never** have fucking been so intrusive. _

“John, it’s not your fault. Really it isn’t. I just had all of the emotions I’d buried come to the surface. It would have happened eventually. It was nobodys fault but mine,” Sherlock was saying for the millionth time, but John was deaf to his words. It was his fault. Uncontrollable guilt circled him, causing him to retreat to some dark place in his mind. _It was my fault. Anything could have happened, he could have **died-**_

“John!” Greg was yelling, pulling him back to the gloomy kitchen “Pull yourself together. Not your fault. You heard him as well as I did. Repeat after me. Not. My. Fault.”

“Not my fault.”

_My fault._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like making John feel guilty. But I did. Also, about the panic attacks, I am writing these from what one of my friends has told me about them as well as some stuff from the internet so sorry if its not a very accurate portrayal. But 25 chapters! Quarter of 100! It may actually end up being that long, hopefully not. It it does end up being that then it'll have to be turned into a series. This already takes up 62 pages on Word.  
> (I think my favourite thing I've ever written, by far, would have to be the line 'after a few minutes of aggressively preparing tea'. I was laughing forever)


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually surprisingly happy considering what has been happening recently!

Sherlock stumbled through the school gates just as the bell was ringing. He dodged past the other late students and ran to his first class, ignoring the stares he received. There was no way In hell he was going to risk being spotted by Anderson or Sebastian. He was sure they would be trying to find him and if they did he could end up going home with a broken limb. Or four. It being the last week of term before the Easter holidays, the teachers were really piling on the work. Added with the fact that their GCSE’s were looming closer than anyone would like to think and lessons were becoming frantic. Of course, Sherlock didn’t care. It was all revising and he didn’t need to revise. _These idiots wouldn’t have to either if they had just listened the first time around._ It was Chemistry and Mr Griffin was doing what he always did when it came to revising- he just sat there and told the class to read through their notes until they remembered everything. _Really helpful._ Sherlock had been in his class for about a term after he was moved down from studying with the 6th form. It had happened before he’d been moved in biology but only because he had asked to be moved. He had despised his class and had thought it would have been better to move when he wanted to rather than when he was forced to. John had physics first and was in the classroom opposite. Sherlock still had no idea why he had memorised Johns timetable but he had thought it might come in useful at some point.

About half way through the lesson, the door was opened and on of the countless secretaries the school had to offer stepped timidly into the classroom.

“Can Mr Holmes please follow me?” she asked the room as a whole instead of just directing the question at either him or Mr Griffin.

Curious students turned to face him, most of whom were smiling maliciously. He had angered enough people over the years he’d been at the school to have plenty who would be glad to see him punished whenever and however possible. They were clearly hoping for this to currently be the case. Sherlock himself was genuinely confused; going through all the things he could possibly have done wrong recently, as he pushed his chair back and left the room. But they passed by the headmasters room and he was then in no doubt as to where they were heading.

 

-

Miss Lassiter was organising some papers on her desk when he entered the office. She quickly placed them down and smiled up at him, gesturing for him to sit down.

“Sherlock,” she began brightly “Good to see you again. You weren’t in school for the remainder of last week. Were you ill?”

He gave a swift nod so she continued

“I just called you here to tell you the sanctions that have been given to Mr Anderson and Mr Moran.”

Sherlock gave another nod, dreading the response.

“Both have been suspended. Due to the fact that your GCSEs are approaching, it would have been terribly inconvenient for them and the school system if we were to expel them now. They have, however, been banned from coming back onto school grounds unless given specific permission to do so by a teacher and will only be allowed back to sit their exams. They can also not come back here to study during your study leave and will be immediately taken off school grounds. You will be kept an eye on by staff members so that their friends or other members of the school can’t enact any form of violence against you.”

Sherlock was speechless. This was better than he could have hoped. He would now be able to come to school with a lessened fear. Now the only thing he would have to worry about would be coming into contact with either of them outside school, but that was easy enough to avoid. Nobody knew where he lived now. Sebastian had known his old address but he never planned on going back there. _I might never see either of them again!_

Miss Lassiter was saying something else but he didn’t care. He was the happiest he had been in months, he didn’t have to care. He had to tell someone.

John! He could tell John! He made his way as slowly as possible back to his chemistry classroom, not wanting anyone to see the smile on his face. The thought of never having to come into contact with those two creatures again just made him feel so full of joy he wasn’t sure he would be able to hide it in front of people. But he had to because that was who he was. The sociopath. He’d picked up the word a few years ago and had decided it had fitted quite nicely with the image he had been creating for himself then. Of course, now it was much more than an image. It was who he was, shaping his personality, his behaviour, his way of life. But how could he retain that image if he had a friend?

-

Leaning against next to the door of Johns physics classroom as the bell rung, Sherlock was trying to piece together a way of saying what had happened without making him sound too emotional. He had finally settled on an answer when John appeared. All thought deserted him. John was almost the exact picture of what he had looked like yesterday. Dark rings encircling his usually bright eyes, hair messy and neglected, weary posture- it didn’t fit him at all. John turned to look at him, surprise showing quickly on his face before he covered it with a tired smile. Sherlock saw instantly what was wrong. John still blamed himself.

“Hi Sherlock,” John yawned “shall we go to the library?”

Sherlock agreed and quickly made his way there, artfully weaving his way through the throngs of students. _Why does he still blame himself? I told him it wasn’t his fault._ Taking up their usual space at the back of the library, John proceeded to ignore Sherlock and, sitting at the desk, pulled out an English essay and began to uninterestedly add the odd word, yawing almost every second. Sherlock sat nearby, mind racing. _Hasn’t slept since Friday, still incessantly worried about me, arguments between family have gotten worse, beginning to stress about upcoming exams_ \- his inner monologue was suddenly brought to an abrupt halt as Johns head banged against the desk. He’d fallen asleep. _Shit, what do I do?_ Sherlock leaned over him, giving his head a poke. Nothing. People were beginning to stare, sniggering poorly hidden behind hands and whispering almost loud enough to deafen him.

“John.”

Still nothing.

Sherlock sighed loudly before poking John hard between the shoulder blades.

“John, wake up!”

John suddenly sat bolt upright, glancing worriedly around at him before blushing a deep crimson and burying his face in his hands.

“Oh my god, I fell asleep didn’t I?” he mumbled

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock replied, shooting a venomous glance at the nearest group of laughing people.

He was suddenly struck with an idea. Sweeping his bag onto the desk, he rummaged around inside before triumphantly emerging with a flask.

“Here,” he smiled, offering it to John.

He didn’t take it, raising an eyebrow. _Why is everyone so suspicious?_

“It’s just coffee. Take it. You haven’t slept since Friday.”

John gave a confused smile before prising the flask from his grasp.

“Thanks. That’s actually really… thoughtful.”

Sherlock chuckled. He found himself, strangely, glad that John seemed to be a bit happier.

“Consider yourself lucky. It doesn’t happen very often. I'm guessing that essay is due in next lesson?”

John nodded, smile quickly dwindling to nothing.

"I'll do it for you. If you want?"

John stared, before narrowing his eyes

"Are you being serious?"

Sherlock nodded frantically.

"I'll be able to finish it a lot quicker than you anyway as I don't have anything else to do."

John got up and moved away form the desk, sipping at the coffee and watched Sherlock to see if he genuinely meant what he was saying. _Am I seriously **that**  difficult to believe?  _Sherlock quickly took up his place at the desk, glanced round at John and- completely ignoring how he usually acted- stuck out his tongue like a five-year-old. 

John laughed, clearing all negative signs of that last couple of days from his actions. The good news could wait. Right now, he was just happy to have a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, beginning of a great friendship hopefully! Things will hopefully get a bit happier for a bit from here (emphasis on the 'for a bit'). I HATE this chapter. I really want to get to the more interesting bits but have to get this out of the way first. Things will get more interesting, promise. Also, I am looking for a beta reader because I am absolutely sick of having to keep going back and correcting everything. Anyone who's interested, leave a comment and we can sort something out! :)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this would have been up about an hour ago but my family were forcing me to socialise.

The last week of term flew by in a flurry of practise tests and last minute catching up. Before John knew it, it was the final day of school and he was facing a couple of weeks of back-to-back revision and stress. Every day he, Sherlock and occasionally Molly had met up in the library to quiz each other on their subject knowledge and drill useless facts into their brains. Of course, Sherlock was above all of this and just tagged along to ‘help’. John seriously had no idea what Sherlock’s definition of help was, however, as all he seemed to do was comment on how useless revising was and how, if they organised their minds better, they wouldn’t need to do it at all. John had gotten fed up of all the complaining yesterday and had turned on him, telling him that not all of them were as smart as he was and that maybe he should shut up about it, to which Sherlock had arrogantly replied:

“This has nothing to do with intelligence, John, just how you apply it. You clearly don’t know how to.”

John still couldn’t tell if that had been a joke (although he seriously doubted it- Sherlock didn’t joke) or a genuine insult, so let it pass. Molly had ignored it to. She was to star-struck by Sherlock just being there to be able to find any fault in him. John found it quiet funny how oblivious Sherlock was to the fact that Molly clearly fancied him.

Walking home after school with Molly, bags significantly heavier with all of the useless junk they had in there after clearing out their lockers, he thought it would be quite funny to bring it up. They only lived a few streets apart so usually walked home together, chatting about whatever meaningless things had happened that day or about forensics and medicine. Molly had always been passionate about forensics; to the point where John was actually quite concerned it could eb having an effect on her social skills. She could hardly ever stop talking about it.

“So Molly,” he grinned “how will you do with revising at home? It must be a lot more boring.”

She looked over at him with a weary smile

“What are you going on about? It’s boring wherever I am.”

“Yeah, but at least at school you had something- no, **someone** \- to distract you.”

Molly blushed a deep pink, glancing away

“I have no idea what you’re talking about."

“Oh come one Molly!” John laughed “You can barely keep your eyes off him! It was like your life depended on you staring at him.”

“Oh god, was it really that obvious?” She squeaked worriedly

“Don’t worry, I don’t think he noticed. He definitely would have said so- not really one to keep his thoughts to himself.”

Molly sighed in relief and a mischievous smile crept onto her face.

“Well I don’t see you complaining either. You two are practically inseparable and I’ve seen a fair amount of staring from you as well,” she giggled triumphantly

“Molly! That’s a lie!” _Oh god, have I seriously been staring?! No, I can’t have been. I don’t think of him like that. No. She’s lying._

“John, you’ve gone really red!” she laughed, elbowing him playfully

“So, uh, what exam have we got first?” he blustered

-

Leaving a still giggling Molly at her house, John began the short walk home. He and Sherlock had agreed to meet up every Saturday as usual in the café for more revising (on Johns part anyway). What John hadn’t told him was that he was also going to just keep an eye on Sherlock in general. He really didn’t want a repeat of Sunday evening. Just as he was rounding the corner onto his road, he could hear very clearly the sound of Harry shouting. _Oh crap, what’s happened now?_ He ran to the house, where Harry was standing on the garden path, wine bottle in hand, and shouting slurred curses at nothing in particular. His parents were still at work, thank god, or they would have been livid. They liked to keep up a good image and Harry had been tearing it down, piece by piece, since moving back. John cautiously approached her; wary of the bottle she was brandishing, and softly called her name. She was deaf to him though, so more drastic action would need to be taken. Rushing forward, he grabbed her by the forearms and spun her to face him, causing her to swear loudly.

“John? What the hell?” she slurred, feebly trying to pull herself from his grasp “Why are you touching me? Let me go!”

John ignored her and instead guided her into the house through the open front door. Once inside, he sat her down on the sofa before turning on her.

“Harry, I thought we’d talked about the drinking, you were supposed to have cut down,” he could feel his anger rising unchecked and knew it would only be a matter of minutes before he was shouting at her. _Control your temper or this won’t get anywhere._

“You don’t know what it’s like! You’ve never had someone leave you like this; you’ve never had a reason to look for an escape,” she glared at him “your life is perfect.”

_Perfect?_

“My life isn’t perfect. I have the stress of my GCSEs and getting into a decent medical college constantly looming over me. I’ve got a job to try and keep. I’ve got a friend with a hellish past who I am having to keep an eye on to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. I have plenty of reasons to look for an escape, but I have never gone for one,” he spat, anger beginning to show and all remnants of his good mood disappearing

“No John! You don’t know what it’s like!” Harry screamed, running out of the room, tears pouring down her face.

“Oh for fucks sake,” John moaned, sinking onto the sofa and burying his face in the cushions. He really didn’t want this now. He had enough to deal with. _But Harrys right. I don’t know what it’s like to be abandoned._ He suddenly had the unbelievable urge to just get out. Go somewhere else, out of the house, even for a weekend. He just wanted time to clear his head, forget about everything for now.

-

He lay still for about an hour, listening to Harrys sobs from upstairs, growing louder and louder with every passing minute. The sound of the door swinging open and his parents calling hello was enough to bring them to a sudden stop.

“John! What on earth are you doing?”

John looked up into the smiling face of his mother. She looked really tired but he had learnt a year or two ago not to bring it up. It would just make her sad. She didn’t like her work most of the time but her family bringing it up was always enough to put her on the verge of tears. The last thing he needed was to have two crying people to deal with. He had never liked it when people cried- he never quite knew what to do, although he would usually try his best.

“Sorry Mum, I’m just really tired. Been doing a lot of revising,” he smiled

She gave a content nod “Ok then. Have you had anything for dinner?”

“Actually, I was going to head round to Greg’s. We were going to go on a walk and catch up. I was planning on just buying something on the way,” he quickly lied. He really didn’t want her to be forced to cook now. She just needed a sit down.

He got up and, grabbing his wallet from his school bag, set out.Greg was away for a few days, looking around the university he was heading to in the summer. John didn’t mind. Going out would help him calm down, maybe he would even take the train to visit some park. A sudden thought struck him, though, and he quickly changed his mind.

-

He had no idea if Sherlock would actually be in- he knew surprisingly little about what the strange teen actually did in his spare time other than play violin, set things on fire and be smart. It was quite a surprise when, approaching the front door, it was flung open and Sherlock swept past him, long coat in place and a look of joy on his face.

“Sherlock!” John yelled after him, causing him to stop and turn abruptly his way

“John! What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, heading back towards him

“Oh, I just-“

“Needed to get out of the house because your sister is drunk again and you are sick of dealing with her,” Sherlock finished with a nod

“Why bother asking if you’re just going t tell me anyway?” John huffed, wrapping his jacket more tightly round him and kicking angrily at the ground

“But am I right?”

“Of course you’re right, you’re always right. I just thought I’d visit you while I was out, see if you were doing anything”

Sherlock suddenly grinned, looking as if he was going to jump up and down with glee. _Of course he wouldn’t do that, it would be too expressive._

“Actually, yes, I do have something to do. I’ve got a case!”

“Case?” John asked, confused

“Yes, case. As in a police case. That sort of case.”

“Oh well how didn’t I know that?” John replied sarcastically “So is this what you do in your spare time?”

Sherlock nodded

“I makes everything less boring. If you know how to hack into the NSY files then-“

“You hacked into NSY files?!” John shrieked, catching the attention of a nearby old couple who walked away a lot quickly than they previously were.

“Shut up!” Sherlock hissed, “I hacked the NSY files, so what? I can help them.”

“With what exactly?” John hissed back.

“The police are idiots. They miss the most important details that could help solve their cases. I go along and help them. They know me. I don’t get in trouble.”

“So you solve crimes in your spare time?” John asked, astonished. This was definitely more interesting than playing the violin.

“I guess you could put it like that,” Sherlock nodded. He suddenly seemed to realise something, and turned to John again with a smile.

“Want to go with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First case together! I cant wait to write this!


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a shitty first case! (I tried to build it up around the text from A Study in Pink- If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. I disregarded the actual case behind it)

Stepping of the train at Battersea station, Sherlock and John made their way to a nearby block of flats. From what Sherlock had seen, there had been a break-in, the circumstances of which had caught his attention. The streets lamps were just beginning to flicker to life around them as they approached the neon police tape. Various detectives and police officers were buzzing around the scene, ordering away prying members of the public and organising various pieces of evidence. He hadn’t told John much about the case, not particularly wanting to worry him with the prospect of coming into contact with some unsavoury characters. He couldn’t hide it forever through as, upon seeing the police tape, John grabbed his arm and spun him to face him.

“So what are we doing? What’s happened” John asked worriedly

“We are going to go and investigate a suspicious break-in,” Sherlock sighed, making to carry on but was brought to a halt by John grabbing his arm again

“Just a break-in?” John asked

“No. An interesting break-in,” Sherlock corrected and walked briskly over to the crime scene.

A familiar figure greeted him as he ducked under the tape

“Hello freak.”

“Evening Sally, charming as always.”

Sally snorted, glaring at him. _God, she’s aggravating._

“So here to look at the most recent corpse?” she snarled “maybe they’ll let you take this one home.”

“There isn’t a corpse; you wouldn’t be here if there was. You are far too delicate.”

“Well I’m sure you wouldn’t mind creating a corpse for us then, would you?”

He was about to give her a particularly unflattering remark when John caught up. Spotting Sally, he smiled

“Hi Sally, what you doing here?”

“Work experience, I told you remember?” she smiled, temporarily forgetting he was there.

_How the hell do they know each other? They shouldn’t know each other; we don’t go to the same school! And it not like John has that much of a social life…_

“So what are you doing here?” Sally was asking

“I was just, um, here with Sherlock,” he said, tilting his head in Sherlock direction.

The look of shock on Sally s face was priceless.

“You’re with the freak?”

“Freak?” The smile on Johns face had disappeared and been replaced by a near murderous glare.

“So can you tell me where Phelps is Sally?” Sherlock quickly intervened. As much as he enjoyed investigating them, he didn’t want to be investigating a murder there tonight.

Sally pointed them towards the block of flats- shortly telling them that they wanted to head to the fourth floor, flat 721- before walking off, angrily muttering under her breath. A few heads turned their way as they made their way inside the building but none asked questions. They knew him, either through having come into contact with him or hearing rumours. He was apparently a recurring topic for gossip at NSY, not that he cared. They could talk as much as they wanted. No one really liked him; he was apparently too rude to everyone, but they tolerated him because he could speed up the time taken to solve cases. When he reached the flat, a particularly annoying detective inspector- DI Phelps- greeted him.

“Sherlock! Hi, glad you’re here,” she smiled “We’re a bit lost with this one. Could you take a look?”

She didn’t dislike him; she actually thought he was worth asking when others wanted nothing to do with him. It was just how… upbeat she always was that annoyed him. He nodded and, pulling John with him, entered the flat.

It was small, much smaller than his flat. There were books scattered on every available surface, probably because the large bookcase against the wall was piled high with various fossils of varying size and significance. Besides the excess of books, the flat was completely spotless. Not an item out of place.

“So what am I looking for?” he asked, turning to Phelps

“There was a priceless fossil stolen. The door was locked from the inside because the tenants- Claire and David Harkett- were asleep. They work at the National History museum and were analysing a new fossil which the museum gave them last week to have a look at. Someone broke in last night, nicked the fossil. Nobody has any idea how they got in,” she relayed

“So it’s just a fossil?” Sherlock snorted

“Let me finish,” Phelps snapped “This fossil is worth over £10 million.”

“£10 million? Boring,” he sighed and turned to John “I didn’t mean to waste your time John, we can leave now.”

“Sherlock, wait. That is quite a lot of money. Maybe you could help,” John suggested, refusing to move as Sherlock tried to drag him back out of the flat.

Phelps smiled “I like you, John. You should listen to your friend, Sherlock. It would probably only take you five minutes and we do have other cases to take care of.”

Sherlock sighed, annoyed at Johns intrusion, but proceeded to look around the flat anyway.

He would first have to find the way for the intruder to have entered the flat unnoticed. There were various windows littering the flat- one in the bedroom (no, they would have woken up the tenants), one in the bathroom (too small for anyone to fit through) and one in the kitchen. So they had most likely entered through the kitchen window. Looking closer at the frame, he saw small traces of fabric caught at the hinges were a jumper or pair of woollen gloves had snagged on the metal as well as miniscule specks of mud around the bottom of the frame. They had climbed in through this window. After notifying Phelps of this, he continued to the rest of the flat. All of the books were either history or archaeology related. Sitting on the coffee table, however, was a book on ‘The Art of Gambling’. This didn’t fit with the rest of the flat at all.

“Phelps, where are the Harketts?” he asked, picking up the book

“Outside being interviewed,” came the dull reply

“John, would you kindly go and ask who them who this book belongs to and who has visited them in the last week?” Sherlock turned and held out the book to John who nodded and scurried off.

Phelps, seeing a lapse in the investigation, turned on him with a grin.

“Who’s he?” she smiled

“A friend,” he replied shortly, turning back to inspecting the area around the window to try and avoid conversation

“That's a lie, I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t have friends,” she snorted

“Well apparently I do,” he hissed “Would you kindly refrain from asking about my personal life? Some people might find it inappropriate and I don’t appreciate it.”

“Come on, you can talk to me, surely. I’ve been the only one to tolerate you since you stumbled onto that bloody murder case a year ago,” she laughed

The conversation was mercifully interrupted as John re-entered the flat.

“Its Claire’s brothers. He left it when he visited on Wednesday. No one else has been here but the Harketts,” John gasped. He’d clearly just run up the three flights stairs to get here.

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes, and brought together what information he had. The flat had been entered by the window. The person entering would have to have known the exact flat in order to avoid mistakes, so would have to have been inside. The couple were clearly not to blame- the flat showed they were alarmingly dedicated to their work and he doubted would ever have stolen a fossil. They were also clearly obsessed with their work and would probably enthuse about it to anyone visiting, so would have told them about the fossil and its worth. Claire’s brother was a gambler. His eyes snapped open. Rushing to the window, he flung it open.

“John, can you please hold onto the back of my coat? I don’t want to fall to my death,” he asked.

John stumbled over and, having taken hold of his coat, Sherlock leaned out of the window. Being four floors up it was quite a way to the ground, not that he was scared of heights. He could clearly see a few police still milling around. _Useless, what are they going to find down there?_ He pushed himself slightly further out of the window, allowing him to get a better look below the window ledge. The darkness of the evening made it quite difficult to see but he could spot two dashes of what looked like green paint caught on the rough wall. Pulling himself back into the flat, he raced out of the flat and down the stairs into the street. He looked up at the windows but couldn’t remember which one it was. There were plenty of open windows on the fourth floor.

“John? You still up there?” he called

A few seconds later, John was staring down at him and waved stupidly.

Sally snorted behind him “Oh Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

A few of the police near them sniggered. Sherlock just rolled his eyes but John heard her and had other ideas

“Shut the fuck up Sally!” he yelled “You stupid bi-“

“Alright John, we get the point. Stop overreacting. I just wanted to know which window it was,” Sherlock yelled back. There was too much immaturity here for it to remain tolerable for long.

Sally was now laughing her head off at John’s reaction

“Getting protective of your boyfriend?” she shouted between laughs

Sherlock didn’t hear John’s reaction as he clamped his hands over his ears and proceeded to carry on the investigation in welcome silence. Searching the ground below the window he found exactly what he was looking for in a few minutes. Two more dashes of green paint scratched into the tarmac.

Taking his hands away from his head just in time to hear John shout one of the worst insults he had ever had the misfortune to listen to, he called up.

“John, stop being immature and send Phelps down. I’ve solved it.”

-

“So it was definitely the brother?” Phelps was asking incredulously for the tenth time.

“Yes it was the brother if he owns a green ladder. If it wasn’t him then I’ll marry Sally,” he groaned

Sally heard him and pulled a face in disgust “No way in hell. I’d rather marry my cat than marry you. I think anyone in their right mind would rather marry my cat.”

John glared venomously at her. He was being strangely protective of Sherlock today for some reason.

“Ok, guys, calm down. I’m not here to run a nursery;” Phelps grinned “I’ll check on the brother. If he has a green ladder it was him. And if not, I’ll be attending your wedding.”

She laughed before waving and hopping into her car. The rest of the police had left and she had been only one to remain. Sally headed off in the direction of the nearest taxi station whereas Sherlock and John made their way back to the train station. John rubbed a weary hand over his eyes and yawned. Sherlock checked his watch. It was almost midnight.

“Sorry about that John,” he muttered “wasn’t as interesting as I had hoped.”

“No, it was actually quite fun,” John smiled “and you do this all the time?”

“No, not really. I usually only look at the murder cases,” he hummed

“Murder cases?”

“Yeah. Much more interesting than missing fossils.”

“But how on earth are you actually allowed to do that? You’re a teenager! Plus, you can only be an amateur… whatever you are,” John blustered

“Consulting detective.”

This statement was met by a confused silence so he elaborated.

“It’s what I’m going to do for a job. When the police are out of their depth, which is always- as I’ve mentioned- people can go to me. And I’m not an amateur.”

Before John could argue his surely hopeless point, Sherlock’s text alert sounded through the empty tube station.

It was a text from Phelps

‘I guess I won’t be going to your wedding.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God what a terrible chapter. I don't really like Phelps but I wanted to get a DI who would be tolerant of Sherlock in the same way Lestrade is. I might get rid of her soon. Also- this is important- I AM MAKING THIS A SERIES. A SERIES. CANT WAIT BUT IT MIGHT BE EXTREMELY SAD. MOST LIKELY. Also also, I am actually forcing myself to revise so I seriously have no idea when I will be able to update this. Definitely not as often as at the moment. Sorry.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me?
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Sorry, had to be said)

“John! Are you alright?”

John stood propping himself against the doorway of Speedys as Mrs Hudson fussed about him. It had been almost 2 o’clock when he had finally gotten home and he was absolutely shattered. He didn’t regret going with Sherlock but, _Christ, this guy does this on a regular basis? How?! I can barely keep my bloody eyes open!_

“I’m fine, just-“he gave a huge yawn in place of the rest of the sentence and Mrs Hudson laughed

“You were out with Sherlock, I could hardly have expected less. Never sleeps. Always playing that violin into some god-forbidden hour of the morning. Does my head in sometimes, although it really is beautiful,” she smiled fondly “I just don’t want you falling asleep at the counter, agreed?”

John gave a weary nod before ambling inside and slumping into the chair behind the counter. He was about to set to preparing some coffee- he’d taken caffeine tablets but they weren’t working as he’d hoped- when a sudden deafening bang echoed through the building, closely followed by some equally loud swearing.

Mrs Hudson also started shouting, adding to the din, and he heard her hurry upstairs before swiftly following.

The door to Sherlock flat had been flung open, remnants of what looked like smoke lingering inside and Mrs Hudson was shrieking

“I can deal with a lot of things, young man, but when you try and bow up my flat then I won’t be so lenient! What where you doing? You could have burned the building down!”

John peered anxiously round the doorway, expecting to see a huge inferno engulfing the flat or some toxic substance leaking hazardously across the floor, but was just met with the almost disappointing sight of a the smouldering remains of a camping stove and a few broken test tubes and flasks. Sherlock stood calmly amongst the wreckage, half his face and cloths covered in soot and an exasperated look on his face.

“There was no way possible that it would have set the building alight. It wasn’t powerful enough and I had taken all the necessary precautions. I simply miscalculated the temperature I should have put the stove at and the pressure caused it to explode. Nothing too serious,” he sighed, stepping forwards and taking Mrs Hudson gently by the shoulders “It won’t happen again.”

Mrs Hudson was still visibly shaking with rage and continued angrily “I sincerely hope there was no damage as I have still not received a single penny from your brother as rent for this flat. You said that he would be paying your rent and you are definitely not following through on that whatsoever.”  

“He hasn’t paid you yet?” Sherlock asked, looking bewildered and tipping his head to the side “He assured me he had.”

He caught sight of John standing in the doorway and gave him a swift nod before turning away from the two of them and taking his phone from the mantelpiece.

“Excuse me, but I have a call to make,” he muttered before sweeping out of the out of the room and heading to his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him.

John stepped towards Mrs Hudson who was standing glancing at the wreckage lying in the kitchen and solemnly shaking her head

“He really needs to clear up his act,” she muttered as she began to pick through the broken glass

“I’ll clear this up for you if you want?” John asked, wanting to help

“That would be very thoughtful, dear,” she smiled “I’ll mind the café’. Try and talk some sense into him if you see him, will you? I would really appreciate it.”

She left the flat, barely managing to not slam the door in anger. John turned to the war-zone that was the kitchen surface and groaned. There was melted plastic and charred metal strewn everywhere, as well a pool of bright blue liquid dripping onto the floor. Considering it was Sherlock, it was probably highly corrosive or poisonous. _Why the hell did I volunteer to do this? It won’t achieve anything- he’ll just blow something else up in about five minute and it’ll be the same._ He leaned against the counter, eyelids getting heaver every second, and began to unenthusiastically collect bits of destroyed camp stove.

-

“NO. PAY THE MONEY. I’M STAYING HERE.”

John was suddenly woken by Sherlock screeching- _probably at his brother_ \- and slamming the door as he stomped into the kitchen. He hastily pulled himself back to his feet from where he had been lying on the floor and tried to look like nothing had happened. It was bad enough falling asleep, but falling asleep in **Sherlock’s** flat? That was a hell of a lot worse.

“John, if you are just going to be falling asleep, I would suggest going home.”

“Of course. **Of course** you would notice. Why the hell did I think different?” John grumbled, glaring at the other teen in the kitchen.

Sherlock stared back at him, a look of perfect horror plastered on his usually inexpressive face.

“What? What’s happened? What’s wrong?” John asked, suddenly alarmingly worried

“John, you may want to check your face,” he stated urgently “You were lying in Trifluoromethanesulfonic acid.”

“That means nothing to me,” John stuttered “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s a highly corrosive acid and you have it on your face.”

“SHIT,” John shrieked, before pelting to the bathroom and quickly sticking his head in the shower. _I should NEVER have said I’d help. What did I think would happen?!_

Turing off the shower after a few minutes, he shook the water out of his hair and eyes before looking in the mirror. The top of his T-shirt and apron were soaked though but, apart from that, there was nothing amiss. No signs of irritated skin- nothing. _I don’t understand…oh._

“You complete bastard!” he shouted, after which, violent laughter suddenly broke out in the kitchen.

He stalked out of the bathroom, anger rising unchecked. Sherlock was standing doubled over with laughter in the kitchen, supporting himself with one hand on the counter. John was definitely not so happy with his joke.

“You fucking lied to me! I thought I would end up having to go to hospital or something!” he shouted “Why did you do that?!”

“Because it was funny,” Sherlock muttered, suddenly completely wiping his face of all emotion- quite alarmingly considering he had almost been in tears less than 10 seconds ago.

“Well it wasn’t!” John spat “I thought I was going to end up looking like Two-Face!”

Sherlock looked confused “Who?”

“You know, Two-Face? Batman villain?” John suggested

When it evoked no response John smiled, knowing he had the upper hand.

“Do you seriously not know who he is?” he asked, causing Sherlock to shake his head “How about The Joker? Catwoman? The Riddler? Poison Ivy? The Penguin?”

He continued naming villains but each one was replied to with a shake of the head, Sherlock seemingly getting more and more confused as the list went on.

“You at least know what Batman is, right?” John asked finally

“I know of it?” Sherlock shrugged

“Seriously?” John grinned, anger beginning to ebb away “DC comics? Marvel? These mean nothing to you?”

“I don’t concern myself with such trivial things, John; they have no place in my mind,” Sherlock grumbled “I have more important things to think about.”

“That doesn’t excuse your lack of knowledge on the subject,” John replied mockingly, mimicking Sherlock’s tone and earning a glare.

“Well at least I don’t have an obsessive knowledge of it,” Sherlock sniffed

“But you do have an obsessive knowledge of everything else,” John smirked

Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to spit some half-hearted insult back at him, when the shop bell interrupted them. John lunged around the counter and, taking Sherlock by the shoulders, began to steer him out of the flat. He tied to pull himself away, but to no avail

“We are continuing this conversation; it’s the only normal thing we’ve talked about,” John laughed, pushing him through the door to the café.

His good mood instantly plummeted and Sherlock stopped in his tracks, suddenly becoming as impossible to move as a brick wall. _Oh for god’s sake, seriously? Now?_

“John! Hi!” Mary beamed up at him, waving from the counter, eyes momentarily flitting to Sherlock and widening

Sally-sat behind her- gave a loud sniff and turned away, whereas the other girls dotted by the windows were now all staring towards the two of them. Mary seemed to want to lift the tense atmosphere and continued smiling.

“Hi,” she waved at Sherlock as well “Are you a friend of Johns?”

John could see Sherlock’s eyes flitting between the girls, cold and calculating. He was cataloguing who they were- John had seen him do it so many times. He gave Sherlock a poke in the back, causing him to jump slightly and turn to look properly at Mary.

“Yes, um, hello. I wouldn’t say friends as such, we just…know each other,” he stuttered anxiously

_Not friends?_

“Yes, we’re friends,” John replied to Mary, causing Sherlock to give him a shocked glance before turning back to everyone.

John unwillingly left him at the door and went to stand behind the counter, setting about putting together the usual order. Sally looked up at him, a smug expression on her face.

“Are you sure you’re just friends?” she asked, eyes flashing maliciously

“Yes,” John replied tightly, trying to conceal his escalating anger. He wasn’t very good at controlling his anger when he needed to and he could tell that if she said anything else he would probably end up throwing coffee in her smug face.

He saw Irene get up from her place by the window -leaving the other couple of girls whispering- and make her way towards Sherlock, who was still standing clueless in the doorway.

“Hello handsome,“ she purred, moving closer to him “or do you have a better name?”

“You have a girlfriend,” Sherlock muttered

Irene took this remark completely in her stride and gave him a glittering smile

“That can be changed if need be.”

Sherlock looked lost and didn’t reply. Sally- surprisingly- did on his behalf.

“That’s Sherlock Holmes- psychopath. I think I’ve mentioned him at some point,” she sighed

Irene’s eyes lit up and she looked back at him with… adoration? _Or something along those lines._

“So this is the famous Sherlock Holmes?” she grinned “I thought he’d be taller.”

Sherlock finally seemed to find his voice and replied

“I’m not famous,” he stated “Although you certainly are, Miss Adler.”

Irene looked taken aback for a few seconds before collecting herself. Everyone was deathly silent and staring at the two of them.

“And how is it you know me?”

“I don’t,” he replied in monotone “But I do know about your family.”

Irene froze, glancing up at him in fear for a fraction of a second, before a malicious glint was placed in her eye to match Sally’s.

“I wouldn’t mention that if I were you,” she hissed “I don’t appreciate it.”

She reached out a perfectly-manicured hand and dragged her fingers along one of Sherlock’s cheekbones. He gave an almost unnoticeable flinch and she grinned before turning her back on him and taking her seat again. Everyone, including John, was now looking between them in utter confusion. It was awkward. Really, **really** awkward.

“Coffee!” John announced cheerily to everyone, quickly grabbing everyone’s attention.

While they were collecting their drinks, John gave Sherlock a barely concealed nod towards one of the stools at the counter. He really did look stupid just standing there. He shakily took the stool next to Mary who turned to smile at him.

“So you volunteer at the yard?” she asked politely, clearly trying her best.

“Something like that,” Sherlock nodded

Mary looked impressed, although John couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not.

“Are you doing anything for them at the moment?”

Sherlock looked up at John and gave a small smile.

“Why don’t you ask John? He was there on my last case,” he replied as politely as he could

John sighed as Mary turned to him, but decided to recount the case nonetheless.

-

Despite the fact it wasn’t the most interesting of cases, John managed to make it sound as interesting as he could. Sherlock seemed to get more comfortable as John talked, and was now ignoring the glares of Sally (and occasionally Irene) instead of returning them. John was happy that he was getting less edgy- it had been beginning to make him feel cripplingly guilty as the encounter with the customers had gone downhill. Finishing the recall of the case, one of the girls turned to Sherlock, a semi-seductive grin on her face.

“That was really clever,” she mumbled, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

A visible change came over Sherlock and he was no longer at ease- instead he was back to his usual cold self. _Shit, no. Don’t say anything you bloody idiot._

“I’m not interested. And if I were you, I would stop trying to pick up people when you go out. You aren’t going to make Mary jealous anytime soon.”

The temperature in the café seemed to drop several hundred degrees as horrified expressions were shared between the group. Mary turned to the girl- who had now turned an alarming shade of red-with raised eyebrows.

“Um, no, I, um, he’s lying!” she shrieked, tears pricking her eyes.

“Oh my god!” Sally shouted, jumping to her feet and rounding on Sherlock “Why can’t you just stop meddling in other people’s lives? Do you enjoy ruining reputations or something? Is that how you get your kicks, by running around, spilling secrets and looking at corpses? Because that’s really fucking twisted, you freak.”

Sherlock had been getting more and more repulsed as Sally had moved closer to him, leaning away from her. John desperately tried to signal to him to not say anything- he would only make the situation a million times worse. He saw, but paid no attention.

“And you are so much better? You go around acting above everyone, putting them down, destroying friendships,” he spat back, advancing on her now, eyes filled with undeniable hatred “How’s Anderson doing by the way? And his ex-girlfriend? Has she forgiven you for being the downfall of their relationship? Have you told everyone here what happened? No, of course you haven’t, because you are a lying, deceitful , waste of everyone’s time.”

Silence. They were both practically nose to nose, glaring venomously at each other. Everyone was staring open-mouthed at their outbursts, trying to let it all sink in. John didn’t care. He knew that Sherlock constantly had the power to hurt people, to reveal all their secrets. He had just never truly believed him when he said he had actually done that to people. He had wanted him to be better than that. But no. He hadn’t been lying. He really was that awful when he wanted to be.

“So that’s why people hate you,” he muttered.

Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes suddenly full of hurt and betrayal. _That was the wrong thing to say, John, what were you thinking?!_ Sherlock sniffed, taking a step back from Sally, still looking at John. The guilt was back, all of it, in one colossal wave. But it was true! That was why people hated him! He had had to say something! Not that he was on Sally’s side either. John opened his mouth to apologise but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anymore. He had turned to the girl who had cried.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, before racing back through the door and up to his flat, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed around the café, unending, drumming into Johns head the friendship he had just destroyed in six words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! I've been gone FOREVER! Sorry, I actually really missed writing this, but I had loads of exam prep to do and homework and other stuff and I just haven't had the time! All exam are over now though, and I'm off school next week so I should be able to get back on track with this! I hope this chapter is OK, there is a lot of dialogue, but... yeah. Thanks for reading, leave comments, kudos, whatever! (so sorry, I wont be gone that long again, promise) :D


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder

_5, 4, 3, 2, 1-_

His phone buzzed exactly on cue and he ducked into the doorway of the nearest building to check it. Another text from John. Since yesterday John had seemed to have developed a rather annoying habit of texting him on the hour every hour (although he had started ignoring the texts after the first four). Sherlock decided to ignore it as usual and continued on his way, turning his coat collar up against the biting wind and rain. It was early Sunday morning and the streets of London were almost deserted, everyone driven inside by the torrential downpours- but he had more important things to do than just mope around feeling sorry for himself. Well… he might do. Mycroft had phoned earlier saying that he had some things he needed to talk to him about and he had agreed to meet him at an old theatre not far from his parents’ house. Of course, they wouldn’t be there. They were away at the moment, somewhere outside the city. Who cares where? Mycroft didn’t usually ask to meet him- he usually just turned up whenever the feeling suited him- so it had to be something interesting to get him to step out of his usual pattern. As the theatre loomed ahead of him, he noticed the familiar neon shine of police tape twisting in the rain and a sly smile broke out across his face. I haven’t had to deal with a murder in ages. Things were starting to get horrifically boring. There were very few personnel outside so he ducked under the tape with ease and stepped through the stage door, making his way into the wings. The familiar outline of his brother was hovering near the band pit as various police, detectives and forensics units rushed around the hall. Thick cobwebs hung from the old rafters- which were clearly visible through the crumbling plaster- and the bright seats and coloured balconies were now faded and coated in thick dust which occasionally took off in flurries after the people now intruding on its space. Mycroft caught his eye and beckoned him over, waving a heavy looking card file in his hand and twirling hat bloody umbrella in the other. Sherlock jumped nimbly down next to him, gaining a few quick glances of disapproval, before Mycroft set out on elaborating on the circumstances.

“Taylor Costa, sixteen years old, found dead here this morning by a group of builders who were planning to start renovating this place,” he gave a grim smile “That has had to be delayed.”

“So what’s suspicious about it? You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something, not really your area of profession,” Sherlock sniffed, he didn’t really want Mycroft to notice how excited he was to finally have another murderer running around.

“Your name was mentioned when it came to this, surprisingly,” Mycroft sighed “It seems you have quite the reputation at New Scotland Yard and you were recommended by a particularly confident DI. She wanted me to ask you about this because she thought that you would bring along that… _friend_ of yours. She didn’t really want him here, but I see that won’t be a problem.”

He spat the word ‘friend’ out with particular disgust and Sherlock immediately put on the defensive.

“I only brought him along on that theft case because it wasn’t important. Besides, he wouldn’t want to come on a case like this with me anyway,” a sudden dull blow of pain stuck him at the mention of John, but he quickly ignored it “And she could have just texted me instead of harassing you.”

Mycroft shrugged and brushed some non-existent dust off the shoulders of his immaculate suit.

“She said that she didn’t want to risk it and that she was sure you would take heed of my word over hers.”

Sherlock gave a distracted nod and quickly prised the file out of Mycroft’s hand, beginning to flick through.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that friend, actually, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed and stared at his brother, rolling his eyes in annoyance.

“You really can’t stop meddling with my life for more than five minutes can you?”

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. You know that. You know what having friends can do to you,” Mycroft replied coldly

“I don’t need reminding. I know perfectly well what it can do,” Sherlock snapped back “but I won’t have to worry about it because he doesn’t appear to want to be my friend anyway.”

“Then why does he keep texting you apologies?”

“I don’t want this conversation.”

“Well we’re having it, so answer me.”

“Can’t you just go and spy on some suspicious MP instead of spying on me? Surely that is a better waste of your precious time.”

“I have people to do that for me, Sherlock. You, on the other hand, aren’t worth their time. So you deal with me.”

“Mycroft, I have a crime scene to look at so leave me be and you can rearrange my life some other time. Okay?”

Sherlock grinned mockingly before spinning on his heels and making his way over to the forensics tent that had been set up not far away. This was no place and not the time to be having this argument. There was something much more interesting happening than a fake friend.

-

“So it’s a serial killer?” Sherlock grinned, trying to fight the temptation to laugh. This was better that what he had expected.

The officer giving him the results of the early forensics test gave him a half alarmed, half concerned glance before continuing.

“Yes. There have now been three murders of this kind in the past month throughout London. All victims were of the same age, gender, build and overall appearance. There was no DNA left on any of the corpses and all were shot with the same type of gun,” the officer relayed.

He didn’t really look very comfortable giving Sherlock this information although he had clearly been put under specific orders to tell him exactly what he wanted to know. Mycroft’s work.

“No witnesses, all carried out in secluded locations, no sign of weapons left behind,” Sherlock filled in, much to the surprise of the officer. That hadn’t been mentioned by him or anywhere in the file Sherlock was clutching

“What were the names of the others?”

The officer fumbled with a notepad before giving the names of Jane Berry, Kate Stewart and Rebecca Davies. Nothing in common there, but he could always just get Phelps to give him their files as well. He really needed the information on the other three murders before he could set about solving this. _It should be simple enough if the killer is searching for a type- they always slip up when they get too specific._ He quickly tapped out a text to Phelps- ignoring the growing list of unread texts from John- and asked her to get him the other files as soon as possible. He had gotten all the information he really needed form this crime scene so began his way back to Baker Street.

 

-

About ten minutes’ walk away from the flat, a sudden excited voice broke through the thundering rain.

“Sherlock! Fancy seeing you here,” Molly smiled, catching up to him and manoeuvring herself ahead of him so he was forced to stop walking.

“Good morning Molly,” he sighed “And I do live here so it is hardly much of a coincidence.”

“Oh! Yes, um, you do live here don’t you,” she blustered, face turning slightly pink “Would you, um, like to get a coffee? It’s raining so we could just wait it out together.”

“I’m close to my flat, I don’t need to wait out the rain,” Sherlock said as he continued walking, attempting to leave Molly behind

“You live above a café though, don’t you? We could still get coffee,” she asked hopefully

“I don’t have time. I’m in the middle of something.”

Molly didn’t pay attention to this and just carried on happily

“So how is all your revision going?”

“I don’t need to revise.”

“Is that because of your ‘mind palace’? You did mention that; I just didn’t really understand how it works.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock spotted a slightly exasperated look cross Molly’s face before she was smiling again. She dropped the attempts at small talk after that and resolved to just accompany him in silence. The walk back seemed to drag on forever and, upon entering Speedys, the two of them were absolutely soaked through and Molly was shivering. Sherlock draped his coat over the nearest chair and called to Mrs Hudson, alerting her that there was a customer, before heading to his flat to drop off the file and check his email. He’d managed to smuggle his laptop from his parents’ house a few days previously while they weren’t there and had gotten a lot more of his equipment as well, although still no furniture. Phelps had sent him the necessary file and, along with his laptop, he headed back down to the café. Molly was hardly the most interesting of company, but her vast knowledge of forensics could possibly come in handy.

Upon re-entering the café, Molly and Mrs Hudson were both at the counter, Molly now with a fresh coffee, and gossiping away about some rubbish with the occasional giggle. He took up a space near the window and left them to it, but Mrs Hudson chipped in.

“I’ll leave you two to it then,” she smiled, before heading back out.

Molly made her way over, carrying a coffee for him, and set it down on the table before taking he seat next to him and glancing at the laptop screen.

“Um, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you looking at pictures of dead people?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of murder. Hope this was an alright chapter- it is actually proving to be quite difficult writing about a serial killer. 30 chapters! And I'm still rambling on about nothing, sorry, I will actually hurry up and do stuff at some point in the near future.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess they're bonding?
> 
> Molly's texts are the ones that are underlined  
> (Sorry for the amount of dialogue this chapter, I know its too much)

‘Sherlock is single isn’t he?’ 

John stared at the text in disbelief before quickly typing back a response.

‘I think so, yeah’

‘Don’t you know?!’ 

‘I think he is, but we don’t really talk about that kind of stuff!’

‘Ok, good :)’ 

‘Molly, what are you doing?’

‘We’re getting coffee’ 

‘That’s not what I meant!’

It took Molly several minutes to text back

‘John, he’s looking at pictures of dead people on his laptop.’ 

John almost choked on the tea he was drinking, causing him to drop his mug which smashed to pieces over the kitchen floor, before he was sent into violent hysterical laughter. Greg, peering round the doorframe, gave him a concerned look

“What’s so funny?” he asked, manoeuvring his way around the shards of broken pottery littering the floor “You broke my favourite mug!”

John was having trouble giving a coherent answer without bursting out laughing again so after several fragmented attempts at sentences, Greg just took his phone and flicked through the messages.

“John, what the hell is going on?”

Managing to just about compose himself, John grabbed his phone back to reply to Molly:

‘It’s hopefully something to do with the police.’

And then to Sherlock:

‘Are you working on a case?’

“Seriously John, what’s happening?” Greg did look generally confused

“He works with the police- must be something to do with them,” he smiled

This explanation looked like to did little to help explain, but he just dismissed it

“So what did you want to talk about?”

The reason he had invited Greg round suddenly came back to the forefront of his mind and the good mood vanished

“It’s about Sherlock actually,” John mumbled, rubbing a nervous hand through his hair

Greg raised an inquisitive eyebrow but said nothing

“I was being a bit of a git yesterday and said something I really shouldn’t have,” he pondered this for a few seconds “Well, I said something bad and he took it the wrong way. Or he didn’t. I don’t bloody know- he doesn’t function like a normal person, it could have meant anything to him-”

“So…?”

“I said something shitty and need you to help make me it up to him because he’s ignoring my texts,” John finished bluntly

“Get him a bouquet,” Greg grinned

“This isn’t a joke,” John spat back “He thinks I hate him!”

“But you don’t.”

“Exactly!” John nearly shouted back before moving to clear up the broken bits of mug

“Then just tell him that! It can hardly be that difficult!”

“But-“

“No, he’s your friend. Just tell him you’re sorry. You don’t need to worry about it this much.”

“But he said that we weren’t really friends! He doesn’t even think we’re friends!”

“Well tell him you are friends!”

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Thank you for those words of wisdom Greg. ”

“John I’m trying to help but you’re both being ridiculous! Just bloody apologise!” Greg yelled, throwing his arms in the air in frustration “This must be the millionth time this has happened!”

“Fine!” John yelled, hauling Greg towards the door

-

“If you two aren’t friends again by the end of the day I’m going to strangle you both. Stop pissing about,” Greg hissed as he slammed the door of the van closed

It was still tipping it down so John quickly made his way into the café, throwing the door open and slumping into the nearest chair. _If Sherlock isn’t here I’m going to completely lose it._

“John?”

“For Christs sake Sherlock!” John shouted, spinning to face the figure sitting near the back of the café, papers strew about the tables around him and the light of his laptop casting his angular face into shadow “You could have given me a heart attack!”

Sherlock sat staring at him in silence, eyes glinting in the shallow light of the café.

“Sorry, sorry,” John mumbled “I’m just pissed at the way I spoke to you yesterday. Greg was giving me death threats-“

“After he drove you here ordering you to apologise? And for us to stop being so childish?” Sherlock finished angrily

“Yes,” John sighed “He hates us both at the moment.”

Sherlock hummed in dismissal and went back to typing. John sat, mind buzzing, now desperately trying to think of something to say. _Greg was right- it shouldn’t be this difficult._

“Shut up,” Sherlock suddenly announced, slamming the laptop shut and glaring viciously at John

“I didn’t say anything!” John answered in bewilderment

“You were thinking, it’s annoying,” Sherlock hissed back

They both sat in silence for a few seconds, Sherlock glaring menacingly and John staring in utter astonishment before he began snorting with laughter.

“We are ridiculous,” he grinned, hauling himself up and making his way towards Sherlock “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t agree with Sally- I don’t hate you or anything.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but almost all anger had drained from his face.

“I’m not ridiculous.”

“Of course not,” John laughed, taking the seat opposite and reading a few sentences on the various sheets spread about “So what are you doing?”

“Investigating,” Sherlock replied, flipping the laptop open again “Serial killer.”

“Oh. Sounds…” _Dangerous? Mad? Scary?_ “…interesting.”

“It is. I haven’t had a serial killer case in ages, they’re easily the most-“ Sherlock suddenly stopped talking and looked at John in confusion “Why are you asking?”

“Just want to know what’s going on. You solve crimes, it’s always going to be worth asking,” John replied

“Well. Yes. Serial killer. Easily the most interesting cases I get. This one is particularly fascinating- no evidence left at any crime scene so the yard are stumped,” he continued enthusiastically, eyes gleaming with a manic joy.

“Do you… need any help with anything?” John asked carefully. He really wanted to make it up to Sherlock, and if helping him catch a serial killer or whatever would help, then so be it.

“A second opinion can occasionally be useful. Feel free to tag along,” Sherlock replied instantly, not taking his eyes off the screen “Would you kindly read through the files? Maybe you’ll find something I’ve missed. Although that’s unlikely.”

John nodded in agreement before picking up the nearest pile of papers. It contained several sheets of forensics results, picture of the crime scene, what information had been collected from the victim’s family. _What the hell am I doing._

“No problem.”

 

-

“John… John. John!”

John sat bolt upright, glancing frantically around the flat. It was dark, the streetlamps casting a faint orange glow through the windows onto the bare floor and contrasting with the dark walls. The rain had resolved to a light shower throughout the day. Sherlock was hovering above him, holding two mugs of tea and looking vaguely annoyed.

“You fell asleep. Again,” he stated, shoving a mug into his hands

John yawned and checked his watch, blinking rapidly a few times once he had woken up enough to read it.

“No wonder I was asleep! It’s almost three o’clock!” he shrieked.

“So?” Sherlock asked, now perched on the kitchen counter- for once free of mess- and still avidly tapping away at the laptop.

“In the morning?”

Sherlock glanced over at him before checking his watch “So it is.”

“Didn’t you notice?” John yawned, making his way into the kitchen

“I’ve been busy,” Sherlock mumbled

John quickly looked over his shoulder at the screen. It was the same page of writing as it had been all day. They had sat in the café-John reading and re-reading the files, Sherlock on the laptop- until Mrs Hudson had told them they had to move as the café was closing, after which they moved up to the flat. John had found nothing as of yet and, apparently, neither had Sherlock. At about 4 o’clock he had gotten particularly angry at the turn up of evidence and thrown a shoe in John’s direction- to which John had responded by trying to trip Sherlock up whenever he happened to walk past. He was relieved that they seemed to be getting along again- it was much too stressful when they weren’t.

“For god sakes!” Sherlock suddenly shouted “We’re getting nowhere!”

He made his way towards the door before shrugging on his coat and turning to John.

“Feel free to accompany me,” he stated angrily, continuing out of the flat and running down the stairs.

John hauled himself into a standing position before stumbling wearily after him. _Where to the hell could he be going at this time?!_

The rain was beginning to finally ease off, leaving a biting wind in its place. John pulled his jacket tighter around himself and glanced about for Sherlock. He spotted him further up the street, walking purposefully away. He looked like he was on the phone. John ran in pursuit of him, tripping over the occasional pavestone in his exhausted state, and shouting for him to wait. He needn’t have worried- Sherlock had stopped and was looking expectantly along the road.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John gasped “It’s three in the morning, in London. It’s dark. Where are we going?”

“I can’t work from the flat. I need to see the scenes first hand. Mycroft is sending a car,” Sherlock replied shortly, clearly meaning to end the conversation

“But-“John went to continue, but was stopped when Sherlock continued walking “Sherlock! Wait!”

John broke into a run, trying to catch up again, but felt his foot suddenly connect with raised pavestone. He managed to shout a particularly expressive swear before he pitched forward and landed face first in a puddle. Groaning, he pushed himself up, taking in the sight of his now filthy jacket and sopping wet clothes. Above him, he could hear Sherlock making his way back, kicking though the puddles near him. _Git._

“John? You idiot-“he suddenly let out a shriek as John swiped at his feet, causing him to slip and fall backwards onto the pavement with a thump. The both of them were now lying in heaps in puddles, staring at each other in varying degrees of anger and confusion. Sherlock stared at John in bewilderment, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. He looked horrified.

John burst out laughing, unable to contain himself. Sherlock grinned mischievously back at him at him, flicking water at his face, before standing up and pulling John to his feet. John was still giggling slightly and, not focusing, managed to slip again and end up lying on his back staring up at the pitch black sky. Then, strangely, John noticed Sherlock mouth tug up into a smile before he too succumbed to a fit of giggles.

“No, Sherlock, we can’t giggle! We’re investigating a serial killer!” John tried to protest weakly

This just served as ammunition and Sherlock just continued to laugh hopelessly. John had never seen him this happy. Or laughing, for that matter. He only shut up when a suave black car swerved onto the street, pulling to a stop next to them, and his indifferent mask was back in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I could generally think of nothing for this chapter so just wrote whatever came to mind first. I have some big stuff planned for the next couple of chapters though! I'm looking forward to it!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually quite pleased with this chapter! Also, you may notice I have changed the tags. I thought I'd just chuck everything there now instead of adding things as I go as I'm now fairly sure whats going to be happening. Just check them in case of triggers (sorry if there are any)

“John! Anything?” Sherlock shouted.

“Bugger all,” John shouted back “I don’t think we’re ever going to find anything”

They had travelled to the last murder scene- an alleyway a few streets off where the abandoned theatre was located- and had each taken an area to search. The police tape was still in place, although here was no one on duty near it, so they were free to search it. This was the last place they were visiting (all the other crime scenes having proved useless) and the sun was just coming up, creating a ghostly outline of the buildings across London. It would have been called beautiful- not that Sherlock really took notice of these things. Sherlock was perched atop a fire escape ladder stretching up the back of a nearby block of flats, surveying the scene for anything useful, while John pottered around below him, scouring the ground for clues. Sherlock sighed and squeezed his eyes closed, trying t repress what anger was arising at the lack of evidence, and jumped nimbly down into the alleyway. He landed elegantly next to John and, ignoring the confused look he received, crouched down and began scanning the ground for even the tiniest scarp of evidence. All the scenes had been exactly the same. Deserted, no signs of a struggle, no DNA found, no weapon, no anything that could possibly point to a killer.

“There has to be something!” Sherlock suddenly yelled, standing up, violently kicking the nearest object (which happened to be a lamppost) and putting his head in his hands in fury.

“Calm down!” John shouted back. He was also clearly a bit pissed off

“Me calm down?! You’re the one who once punched someone in the face because you lost a rugby game, so you’re not really in a position to tell me that!” Sherlock replied, voice somehow rising

“That was once and it was over a year ago! It’s irrelevant to now!” John shrieked, while somehow still looking bewildered “How-“

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock growled “Just keep searching.”

He wasn’t really about to tell John that he had tried to find out as much about him as possible from people at school since they had become friends. Plus, he may or may not have hacked John’s school records.

After nearly half an hour of painstakingly searching almost every inch of the crime scene, they had still found nothing.

“Maybe we should just give up?” John had suggested numerous times. Sherlock had ignored him.

Suddenly, when he was about to actually take heed of Johns words, he spotted something lodged in a crack in the pavement behind a wheelie bin. Sweeping over, he crouched down for a closer look. It was nothing strange. Just an ordinary receipt. Sherlock let a grin spread across his face and turned to John.

“John, I’ve found something!”

John rushed over, kneeling down next to him.

“What? What is it?” he asked excitedly

Sherlock pointed triumphantly to the receipt and watched as John excitement was quickly replaced with annoyance.

“It’s an old receipt. How can that possibly be useful?” he mumbled

“Of course it’s useful!” Sherlock grinned

“How?” John stated

“It’s a receipt for a very specific café not two streets from here. There was also a receipt for that particular café among the positions of one other victim. The chances of it being a coincidence that both have been there and ended up dead are slim. There are no such things as coincidences. It has been here only been here since the murder located here. You can tell by the water marks that it has been rained on, but only once. It rained the day before this murder and once after it. This alleyway has been closed off since so it would have to have gotten here on that day. The wind hasn’t been strong enough for it to have blown here and, judging by its position, it was dropped. You can see it was neatly folded, so it would have been placed in a pocket or bag. The contents of this particular victim’s bag were spilled across the floor when the police found her,” Sherlock quickly relayed without pausing for breath

“Wow,” John grinned “But it could be just be a popular café?” He didn’t look like he was criticizing him- merely trying to help.

“It’s not. I lived around here and frequented the place. It’s actually a miracle it hasn’t closed down yet- the coffee tastes like piss,” Sherlock replied, making John laugh “Unfortunately for us, we may have to make a visit.”

-

The café was a rundown yet cosy looking little place. Peeling green paint framed the door and windows and a few sparse cobwebs hung from the sign. The faded gold lettering identified it as ‘The Poppy tea room’. Sherlock confidently pushed the door open, stepping inside. Mismatched chairs and tables littered the small place, one or two customers were dotted around in the various armchairs and keeping to themselves. There was fake fire flickering at one wall beneath an intricate fireplace, giving the entire place a homely glow. Sherlock glanced to John who nodded in approval, eyes roaming the scruffy room. Sherlock used to come here when his parents were being particularly difficult- so quite regularly- and he was actually quite attached to it. Not that he ever bought anything. Despite the décor, it really was disgusting. A bored looking youth was slumped behind the counter doing a crossword, ignorant to the fact that two customers had entered. Sherlock made his way over, leaning over to get a better look at the crossword.

“It’s pathogen,” he stated “Although I’m sure even you would have worked it out eventually.”

The boy glanced up, smiling “Sherlock! You haven’t been here in ages!”

“Hi Henry,” Sherlock grinned “I’ve not had the chance recently.”

He turned to John

“John, this is Henry Knight. I helped him find someone who set their dog on him when he was younger. Set his fear of dogs straight. We tolerate each other and he occasionally asks me for help with his crosswords.”

Henry and John shook hands a little awkwardly

“So what have you been up to? Anything interesting?” Henry asked

“Nothing much,” Sherlock lied before continuing in a much lower tone “Did you hear about those murders around here?”

“Oh yeah,” Henry replied, matching Sherlock’s tone, eyes wide in horror “Awful isn’t it? All us staff are a bit shocked.”

“How are you all handling it? Having it all happen so close to here…” Sherlock asked carefully. He didn’t want Henry to get suspicious

“God, we’re all a mess really. I knew one of them- lovely girl,” Henry muttered grimly “One of our other employees, Arthur, he’s been taking it particularly hard. He lost his daughter a few months ago. I think it might remind him of it.”

“Poor guy…” Sherlock mumbled, feigning pity, before turning to John who was staring at him in barely concealed amusement “Did you want to buy anything?”

“Sure,” John smiled “Can I get a coffee and some toast please?”

While Henry set about making this, Sherlock led John towards one of the more secluded tables near the fireplace. John grinned at him as soon as they took their seats.

“Were you actually showing pity for another human being?” he asked jokingly

Sherlock rolled his eyes “it’s called acting, John. People trust me if I appear to be reacting like a normal person,”

John shook his head in fake disappointment, a smile still playing on his lips.

“And why the hell did you order coffee? I told you-“

“-It tastes like piss, yeah. I thought I’d see for myself,” John laughed “And you should really get something to eat. I’m starving and I haven’t seen you eat anything,” John stopped and pondered this “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything, actually.”

“Nonsense. I had breakfast on Friday. I’m fine,” Sherlock snapped

“Sherlock! It’s Monday! That’s awful!” John shrieked, attracting a few glares from the other handful of customers

“It’s fine. My body is just transport for my mind. Eating slows me down,” Sherlock replied, trying to pacify him

“That’s absolute shit. You’re starving yourself!” John looked painfully concerned and absolutely furious

“Transport.”

Before John could respond, Henry shuffled over carrying a plate piled high with toast and a large mug of coffee. He was leaning back slightly, no doubt hearing Johns outburst, and was trying to avoid receiving a similar one. John shook his head and smiled

“Thanks mate,” he said “Sorry about the shouting. Won’t happen again.”

Henry nodded worriedly before making his way off. John turned to Sherlock with a glare and shoved the plate of toast across the table towards him. _What the hell was I expecting?_

“Eat,” he hissed, taking a sip of the coffee

There was really no pint in arguing, Sherlock could plainly see that little was going to persuade John, so he reluctantly picked a piece of toast.

“Shit,” John hissed, setting the mug back on the table “It really does taste like piss.”

“Enjoy,” Sherlock smirked, pushing his chair back and making his way over to Henry

“Do you have any idea when Arthur is working again?” he asked cautiously

“Why do you want to know?” Henry asked offhandedly, flitting about making more coffee

“I know how he’s feeling,” Sherlock sniffed, quickly faking tears “My cousin… died a few months ago. We were close. I just wanted to talk to him, you know. See how he’s doing.”

He gave a sad smile. Henry looked at him with pity.

“I’m sorry,” he returned the sad smile and gave him what was supposed to be a consoling pat on the shoulder “Sure. He works here every afternoon, Tuesday through Saturday.”

Those are the days that every murder took place on. Sherlock nodded before turning to go back to John. John glanced up at him and, noticing that he had just been crying, immediately stood up and grabbed him lightly by the shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly “You look like you’ve been…”

He trailed off. Henry was watching them, looking concerned and kept glancing at Sherlock in pity, and now all of the other customers were too. _Shit._ He couldn’t just give up on this act with Henry still being nosy and all these people watched. Even he could tell that that would look a bit suspicious. Instead he decided that the best course of action would be to start crying again. The effect on John was almost instantaneous- he began to panic. Sherlock had already deduced that he wasn’t good with crying people, clearly even less so when it was **him** doing the crying. He decided to make it easy for him and, without a second thought, tore himself from Johns grasp with a loud sob and bolted out of the café into the street. When he was a few metres down the road he stopped and waited for John to appear. It took him a few seconds longer than he would have thought but, sure enough, John rushed out of the café after him and ran over.

“Hey, why didn’t you tell me your cousin died?” he asked cautiously.

_Oh well of course he would have asked Henry what happened. Sherlock you bastard. Now John is going to hate you for… manipulating people? And making a fool of him. You're a complete shit!_

“They didn’t,” he muttered, wiping his face with his coat sleeve “Acting again. Didn’t mean for it to go quite that far.”

“You can be a right dick Sherlock, you know that?” John hissed, all concern evaporating “You better have gotten something from all of that. You made me feel awful.”

Guilt suddenly began circling Sherlock’s head- he hated it.

“Yeah. I did. It sounds like we need to talk to Arthur, one of the other employees,” Sherlock continued, masking all guilt he was feeling “I may have a theory concerning him.”

Suddenly, an idea hit him like a blow to the head.

“John?” he asked carefully.

“What?” John snapped. He was still fuming.

“Your friend, Molly, bares a slight resemblance to… um…” Sherlock trailed off. _Oh. People tend to get protective of their friends-_

John, however, was one step ahead.

“You want to bring Molly along because she looks like the people the serial killer is targeting?!” he asked in alarm

Sherlock nodded reluctantly and John looked horrified

“But we would be there!” Sherlock spluttered hurriedly “No harm would come to her! And I’m not even sure if it is him- we would just be taking her with us to see the reaction she receives.”

“That doesn’t change the fact you want to use her as serial killer bait!” John protested

“Please?” Sherlock muttered. He didn’t want to have to manipulate John but, having no other option; he sniffed and looked at his feet in apparent shame, trying to look as pitiable as he possibly could. He heard John sigh in apparent defeat.

“You promise nothing will happen to her?” he asked

“Scouts honour,” he smiled, before pulling out his phone.

Molly had given him her number for some reason. It barely rung once before it was answered.

“Sherlock! Hi, why- why are you phoning me?” she stuttered in… excitement?

“Hi Molly, I was just wondering,” he asked brightly “Did you want to meet up for coffee again?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Molly. She seriously has no idea what shes getting herself into... yet. And Sherlock is generally coming across as more and more manipulative! I love it :)


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be interesting.

Sherlock had been very clear on the fact that he was not to interfere. That was a bit of a stupid request really- they were using one of his closest friends as bait for a possible serial killer and if John had to interfere, he would without a second thought. He’d spent that morning and previous evening trying to come up with all the possible outcomes of this and how he could prevent anything happening, but somehow it never seemed to end well. It usually ended up with one or more of them dead. _I’ll have to try and avoid that as much as possible._ He was on his way back to 221B for the fourth time that week to go over the plan once more before it was set into action. Molly didn’t know what would be happening- _‘It would jeopardise the entire plan John! If she knew what we were doing, she’d be suspicious of everyone and most likely refuse anyway’_ \- and that passed John off. Sherlock was oblivious to the fact that Molly had the biggest crush on him and if she found out what he was doing, he was pretty sure she would be heartbroken to say the least. He could now practically recite the plan word for word. _Arrive at the café first. Sit out of the way; order something small so as not to arouse suspicion. Make sure to be somewhere where I can always see the suspect but can’t be easily spotted. Make sure Sherlock and Molly don’t spot you. Watch for his reaction. If Sherlock leaves, don’t interfere. If the guy approaches Molly, don’t interfere. If he tries to get Molly to leave the café with him, don’t inter- nope. Fuck that. I’m not letting that happen. Sherlock should have phoned the police by that point anyway. If she actually does leave the café with him, run after the fucker and bash his brains out._ He’d felt the need to get Sherlock to agree on the last point as he was pretty sure Sherlock would have just ended up telling him not to interfere. He had no idea why they were doing this- why they couldn’t just tell the police?! But apparently that wasn’t how Sherlock worked. He would go out, alone, and do this kind of stuff. Alone. _Of course he would. He doesn’t like people. And he did say the police messed things up and got things wrong._ Completely distracted by this inner monologue, John hardly noticed as he approached Speedys. Sherlock was waiting outside, sweeping coat and scarf in place, and illuminated by the flickering of the streetlamps that were just beginning to come to life all over the city. He looked, John thought, and in all absence of a better word, stunning. What. John stopped and blinked a few times. _That is definitely not a word to describe your friends._ Sherlock, without so much of a greeting, immediately demanded John relay the plan. He did this with ease and Sherlock, quiet unceremoniously, just nodded and gave him a shove as a taxi pulled up alongside them.

 

-

The café was empty when John took up his designated seat. There was nobody behind the counter or any other customers and it gave the previously quite homely café an eerie feel. As though there was something lurking just out of view. Although-to be perfectly honest- there was a potential serial killer loitering somewhere on the shadows. There was a sudden crash from behind the counter and John span round, ready to leap into action if necessary. But instead of his gaze falling on some scary guy with varying terrifying instruments of death looming over him, he instead found himself staring at possibly the most unthreatening person in the world. The man was flitting nervously about behind the counter, muttering curses under his breath, as he attempted to gather all of the mugs he had just dropped. He could barely have been any taller than John- which wasn’t very tall at all- and could only have been in his late thirties, a thick head of dusty ginger hair topping his head and a pair of thick glasses perched precariously on his nose. He could probably be described as quite good-looking. This can’t possibly be the guy we’re after. _He looks completely helpless! Sherlock must have got it wrong. But Sherlock doesn’t get thing wrong…_

“Excuse me?” John called, getting up and cautiously making his way towards the counter. _Shouldn’t risk it- just in case_

“Yes?” The guy replied with a smile “Sorry, I didn’t spot you. I was...um…”

He gestured awkwardly to the scattered mugs. John gave a brief nod and continued with the plan.

“Could I just get a coffee please…?” He left a deliberate gap fort the man to supply his name, seeing as he wasn’t wearing name badge.

“I’m Arthur,” he supplied “And of course.”

He set about making Johns order while John stood there in panic. This couldn’t possibly be the guy. Sherlock must have got it wrong. He seemed nice. A small voice in the back of his head suddenly decided to pipe up. _Never judge a person’s character on how the appear or act._ Too true. Sherlock was living proof of that particular rule. He always seemed so above everything but John had seen him break. This guy could be hiding anything. He shuffled back to his table once he had his coffee and anxiously awaited Sherlock and Molly.

-

When the bell of the shop finally rung again, John sat bolt upright and pressed himself into the back of his seat. He spotted Sherlock weaving his way through the jungle of tables and chairs towards the counter, closely followed by an eager looking Molly. Arthur wasn’t looking at them- he was polishing glasses- but when Sherlock reached the counter, he looked up and spotted Molly. The change was minute, but horribly noticeable. A malicious shine had passed for fraction of a second across Arthurs face, all previously awkwardness now non-existent and Sherlock had clearly noticed. Molly was oblivious. _Well why the hell wouldn’t she be?! Why would it cross her mind- anyone’s mind!- that the harmless looking guy at the counter of a tea shop was out to murder you?!_

“Could we get two coffees and a slice Victoria sponge please?” Sherlock asked politely.

John couldn’t see his face, but he could only imagine how Sherlock was reading this guy. He must already have gotten so much evidence.

Arthur nodded, eyes lingering for a second too long on Molly, before turning his back. Molly now looked slightly uneasy, but Sherlock led her over to a table by the window and she seemed to be back at ease. John suddenly felt a gut-wrenching pang of guilt. Molly didn’t know this was a ploy. She thought she was out with the guy she had clearly fallen head-over-heels for, getting coffee. _I’ll have to get Sherlock to make it up to her somehow._

“So, Sherlock,” Molly said brightly “How are you?”

_Oh god._

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied bluntly. There were quite a few seconds of silence before he finally seemed to pick up on the right reply “How are you?”

John had to restrain himself from sniggering. Sherlock was absolutely hopeless.

“I fine too,” Molly replied happily “Although all the revision I’ve been doing has been quite difficult. I can’t really get my head around some of the stuff for French. I’m sure I’ll fail miserably.”

Molly wasn’t particularly good at this either, apparently.

“Why? It’s not that difficult, surely,” Sherlock said arrogantly

Yep. He was definitely shit at this.

“It is!” Molly replied quickly in her defence “Do you take a language?”

“I don’t need to. I already know all the ones our school teaches.”

_What._

“What?”

Apparently Molly had been having similar thoughts. Sherlock was thankfully prevented from giving his no doubt painfully obnoxious answer by Arthur calling up to take his order. Leaving Molly alone, he hopped over to the counter and, instead of just taking the items, proceeded to start talking to Arthur. _This is where it could all go horribly wrong and we all die._

“So, um, Arthur right?” Sherlock asked lightheartedly

John glanced around his chair at Molly. She wasn’t listening and had instead taken out her phone and was tapping away at it feverishly. No doubt texting him again, asking after Sherlock. He glanced back at the conversation unfolding.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied carefully “How’d you know?”

“Oh, I was talking to Henry yesterday? We were talking about…” Sherlock trailed off and let out a sniff. He was most likely crying again. _Manipulative bastard._

“Hey, mate, are you alright?” Arthur sounded generally concerned, peering at Sherlock under his glasses in sympathy. They were both acting to match each other.

“I was just… um… he mentioned your daughter…” Sherlock mumbled through his tears or whatever he was doing.

Arthur tensed.

“What about her?” He asked, somewhat more hostile.

“Nothing about her. I’m just really, really sorry and I-um- just wanted to ask something,” Sherlock replied

Arthur stared at him in silence and Sherlock took that as his cue to continue.

“See, my-my cousin d-died recently. We were really close and I just… I just don’t know how to deal with it! Henry said you might be able to give me some advice. I just… can’t…” Sherlock dissolved into sobs

John quickly checked to see if Molly had heard but, _thank god_ , she had clearly gotten a bit bored and had put her earphones in. Sherlock was really quite impressive when it came to this acting. Terribly cruel, but still pretty amazing anyway. Arthur looked slightly lost. John couldn’t blame him. It’s hardly every day you have a random sixteen year old boy turn up and start sobbing at your feet.

“There’s not much I can say,” He finally replied “Losing a daughter is different. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for Kaitlin. She was my entire life. Seeing others walking around with their daughters broke my heart. They couldn’t feel my pain. But I can say that it will pass.”

Sherlock nodded and headed off to the toilets, mumbling something about getting tissues. Arthur, the second Sherlock was out of sight, seemed to switch. Again, it wouldn’t be noticeable to many people if they weren’t looking for the serial killer in him, but the entire persona of the clumsy, good-natured man seemed to vanish, and in his place stood something terrifying. Now John was in no doubt that this man could shoot someone without a qualm. He must have forgotten John was there- _brilliant_ \- and swiftly headed for the toilet door and, taking a key quickly out of his pocket, turned the lock. _Shit. Shit, what do I do? This wasn’t supposed to happen!_ He headed over towards Molly, carrying the abandoned cake and coffee. John was careful to keep an eye onto them, trying to bury his rising panic, and saw Arthur set down the order on the fable, making Molly jump slightly as she hadn’t been paying attention. She mumbled a thank you before realising that Sherlock was missing and glanced nervously around the café.

“Excuse me?” she asked “Did you see where my friend went?

“Yeah. He rushed out,” Arthur replied gently with apparent confusion “something to do with his family phoning him.”

_You absolute fucker._

“Oh,” Molly looked crestfallen and, unsurprisingly, absolutely livid.

“Didn’t he say anything?” Arthur asked with concern, tipping his head to one side. He was really good at this.

Molly shook her head and, ignoring the coffee, made to stand up and leave. She suddenly stopped and sighed.

“I don’t know this area,” she sniffed “Could you point me to the nearest taxi point or tube station?”

Arthur smiled

“There’s a tube station two roads across and a taxi point at the bottom of the hill.”

John was confused. What the hell was he doing? Was he just letting Molly go? No. That couldn’t be rig-

“I’ll walk you there if you want. This area can be quite dangerous.”

Nope. _Yeah, no shit it can be dangerous!_ He was silently willing Molly to turn him down- she was much too sensible to fall for that- plus, he wasn’t really sure if he could do anything about it with Sherlock locked in the toilet and no police there to interfere. It would just end up being two murders instead of one. Molly was pondering this.

“Sure.”

John froze. He could just get up now and stop this happening- but what would Arthur do? If he was offering to walk her out now, he must have the weapon on him. It was a gun. They could all end up dead. His other options would be to let them leave, phone the police, and then get to Molly as soon as he could to try and stop anything happening. Arthur was clearly smart. If John got up now, he would probably panic. He would realise that John had seen him lock Sherlock in and run for it. Then John wouldn’t have phoned the police and he would have gotten away. This was too big a decision to make! Lives were quite literally depending on his next few actions. Suddenly, the sound of the shop bell chiming sliced through his thoughts. Time stopped. Molly was with a serial killer. Molly was going to die. There was a loud crash behind him as he heard Sherlock attempt to kick the lock out of the door, followed by load curses at his failure.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, hurling himself towards the door “Molly left with him! Phone the police, quick, she’s going to die!”

“Alright!” Sherlock shouted back hurriedly “But you had better not be going after them! You’ll get killed!”

John barely heard the last words as he lunged for the exit and tore out onto the street. It was now dark, the sun having gone down some hours ago. There was no one about and the streets were deathly silent- a foreshadowing of the events that would unfold if something more went wrong now. John looked around frantically, trying to spot them. _Oh shitshitshitshitshitshitshit! Where the fuck have they gone?!_ A sudden movement near the bottom of the hill grabbed his attention and he spotted them, Molly walking slightly ahead of Arthur, just turning a corner. It could happen at any moment. John tore down the street, no longer caring, just wanting to reach them and stop this happening. His heart was pounding in his ears as he sprinted across the road, getting closer and closer, the adrenaline pounding though his veins. Somehow, despite the hellish situation and the fact it could leave one of his closest friends and possibly himself dead in a matter of minutes, he found himself ginning manically. He had no idea why- he definitely shouldn’t be smiling- but he couldn't help himself. John found himself beginning to understand what Sally meat. No wonder Sherlock gets off on this.

Every single one of these emotions evaporated again, however, as he rounded the corner and was met with a scene from a nightmare, the cold reality of the situation hitting him. He could clearly see Arthur pulling out a gun, Molly still walking oblivious ahead, and he was putting it into position. John couldn't contain himself anymore and hurtled towards them, shouting Molly’s name. Huge mistake. Arthur spun round, as did Molly, and aimed the gun. John could clearly see the barrel as he got closer, unable to stop himself. Molly screamed as she suddenly realised what was happening. He sees Arthur pull the trigger in almost slow motion, the whole world slowing as the sound of the shot rings through the empty streets. Thank god he misses, John has time to think as he reaches them, skidding into Arthur and knocking him off balance. John managed to regain his in a matter of seconds and gave Arthur a swift kick to the stomach before he can pull the trigger again. Molly stepped in and, to John’s complete surprise, brings her elbow down brutally on the back of his neck, causing him to pitch forward and land face first on the pavement. As he is still clutching the gun, John brings his foot down hard on the man’s wrist before sweeping down to take the gun. Only then does Molly step back, face flushed, breathing rapidly. John can clearly see that she is going into shock but is helpless against it as he is now aiming the gun at the man lying on the pavement beneath him, impeding all his means of escape. He notices that his hands are shaking on the handle of the small handgun, but it doesn’t feel out of place. All three of them are breathing heavily. John can now faintly hear the screeching of police sirens getting closer and closer to them. _Thank god. Thank god, thank_ \- he cut off as he heard more footsteps hurtling towards them. He doesn’t dare turn his back, but is relieved when Sherlock joins their midst. John glances quickly at him and his blood begins to boil when he spots the barely concealed grin etched on his face. Molly suddenly sways on her feet and just manages to catch herself before plummeting to the pavement.

“Sherlock, help her, she’s going into shock,” John commands, surprised at his own boldness and cool head in this panic “Give her your coat.”

Sherlock stared at him in slight alarm before shrugging off his coat and wrapping it gently around Molly’s shoulders.

"Are you both alright?" Sherlock questions, stepping around to face John, scanning his face.

John doesn't answer. _Of course we aren't! We were both just nearly murdered!_  Sherlock can clearly see this and drops the subject, opting instead for circling the three of them muttering to himself. The sirens get closer and closer they are suddenly engulfed by police officers swarming out of about five squad cars, one pulling the gun from his grasp, five descending on the serial killer in front of him, and three pulling him towards an ambulance. Molly was pulled along with him as he was guided into the ambulance and handed a shock blanket. Only then does all the fear come crashing through, piling in on his thoughts, and suddenly the world is getting smaller and smaller, the voices of the officers sound too loud in his ears. They are asking endless questions, none of which he can answer. He looks past them all, ignoring what they are saying, and sees Sherlock standing alone. No one is talking to him. Not even Phelps, who is standing some distance away by a squad car taking notes, and he is not looking at the scene either. His face is illuminated by the light of his phone screen, the smile long gone, replaced by wide eyes and a paler face. He looks terrified. _What could possibly be more terrifying that a serial killer?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the rushed ending, but I wanted to get this posted! Hope that was alright, I've never written anything action based and had no idea what I was doing. Please leave comments, constructive criticism is very welcome :)


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry, I just suddenly had LOADS of stuff to do!
> 
> Trigger warning: Mentions of blood, burns and abusive family (More so than other chapters, sort of)

‘Congratulations on solving the case.’

After about ten seconds of pure panic, Sherlock glanced up at John- who in turn was staring back at him- before fleeing the scene. He ran, ignoring the protesting shouts of Phelps and other police, as fast he could possibly go, skidding around corners and frantically dodging civilians, trying o get to the tube station. The train he needed was just pulling in as he approached and he jumped on. Mycroft was being nice. He was never nice. Ever. And especially not to Sherlock. Just as he was trying to make sense of these thoughts, his phoned buzzed again and he quickly checked it.

‘I have taken the liberty of having your furniture delivered to your flat.’

Now he was being brotherly. Something was definitely wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again. He ignored it. _Phelps_. This was followed again by another text. He ignored it. That would be John. He was much too preoccupied to care about them at the moment. He was desperately trying to puzzle out Mycroft’s motivation behind these texts, but it was like trying to read a book with no words. Impossible.

-

Approaching 221B, it was incredibly clear that Mycroft was there. One of the expensive black cars that he was driven around in was sitting right outside attracting stares of wonder from the passing public. Why he was here, though, was still a mystery. It couldn’t be good, he was sure of that much. Running inside, he bolted up the stairs and flung open the door of his flat. The reason was suddenly blindingly obvious. Mycroft was standing by one of the windows, mindlessly fiddling with the handle of his umbrella and looking… guilty. Around him, littering the flat, were the contents of his room. Bookcases, armchairs, tables and his desk piled high with his useless clutter and a sofa. Sitting on this were his parents. His blood ran cold, mind suddenly invaded by unruly panic which only left his feelings of terror unaffected, causing him to freeze in the doorway. Mycroft looked up at him, face giving away nothing, but his eyes spelled an unwelcome and rare apology. No wonder he had looked guilty. He had lured Sherlock here, knowing that his texts would arouse nothing but alarm and suspicion, and there was no way in hell that this would end well. Fuelled by his anger, words formed in his throat.

“Why the hell are you in my flat?” he spat, masking all fear

His father glared at him, years of hatred evident on his face.

“Aren’t you an ungrateful bastard?” he stood up and took a few steps his way “We brought all your crap here and you welcome us with that.”

Sherlock recoiled slightly as he moved closer, mildly surprised at the hostility. He never resolved to swearing this early in an argument- if at all. Apparently it was below him. By the look on Mycroft’s face, he was clearly surprised as well. He had definitely not been expecting this at all.

“Father?” Mycroft interrupted “Surely there is a more civil way we can deal with this?”

“Stay out of this Mycroft,” his mother replied coolly “This is between your brother and us. Don’t interfere.”

This was going to end really, **really** badly. They always listened to Mycroft. He recognised this and sent Sherlock a pitiful look.

“You haven’t answered me,” Sherlock hissed, ignoring his rising panic “Why are you here?”

“We needed to tell you that you are no longer our problem,” his father spat back “Mycroft is now officially your guardian so we never want to hear from you again. Keep yourself away from us, don’t drag your pathetic problems to us and don’t so much as even visit our part of London.”

“Good,” and then, before he could stop himself “The same goes for you.”

His father just gave a cruel laugh and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes before lighting one.

“You know, Sherlock,” he said calmly, blowing smoke into the room “since you left, we’ve all been so much happier. I could go about my life, not having to worry about receiving a phone call saying about how you’d fucked up this time, about how much of a disappointment you were, about how weak you were. I didn’t have to worry about other people recognising me as your father. Do you know what that was like?” He blew a cloud of smoke into Sherlock’s face, causing him to cough “Absolute hell.”

Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He had taken worse- hell, **much** worse- but he wasn’t going to let this one pass. Maybe it was because it hadn’t happened in a while, but this statement hurt more than he remembered. More than he thought it could.

“You're hardly much better. At least I don’t sleep around with colleagues.”

It was like a bomb had gone off. His mother was suddenly shrieking at him, Mycroft had stepped forward and was trying to shout over everyone and his father had lunged at him, grabbing the lapels of his coat, before shoving him roughly into the doorframe. A sharp spark of pain raced up his back and across his shoulders and he had to restrain himself from crying out.

_That was definitely the wrong thing to say._

-

Mrs Hudson flitted about the kitchen and flat placing items in the right places, occasionally picking one up to have a closer look at it. She wasn’t very happy about the skull but he’d made it perfectly clear that it was staying. They’d spent the morning putting all of the furniture in place and he was quite grateful for it.

“Would you like some tea, dear?” She hummed from the kitchen “You haven’t sat down all day.”

He had to stop himself from correcting her because, yes, he had sat down, he was sitting down right now, and instead just gave a ‘yes’ in reply. He was curled up in his chair tuning his violin. It was taking longer than usual so he was forced to think that his subconscious kept getting it wrong, hoping the sour notes would drown out the words shouted across the flat yesterday. It had turned out that Mrs Hudson had been visiting a friend and Mycroft had arrived in her absence, bringing the furniture with him. At least, that’s what he’d told her. There was no way he was going to tell her what happened, she'd just worry unnecessarily. Thankfully, Mycroft had managed to step in before anything too bad had happened, but that hadn’t meant he had gotten off alright. The bruises on his shoulders and back weren’t about to heal any time soon and neither was his hand.

The doorbell suddenly sounded through the flat, causing him to jump and look hurriedly towards the door in alarm and Mrs Hudson to hurry out of the flat saying something about how the tea was on the table and he’d have to get it himself. He hoped it wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to see anyone- he wasn’t in the mood to socialise. Not that he really ever was.

“Sherlock?”

John poked his head around the doorframe, peering into the flat, eyes wide at the sudden appearance of furniture. He looked like hell, clearly hadn’t slept. _Probably nightmares._

“Hello John,” Sherlock replied absently, motioning for him to join him “Why are you here?”

John seemed a bit taken-aback by the sudden question

“I just wanted to see if you were ok. You know, after yesterday?” he mumbled

“I’m fine. Why would I be bothered?”

“Because we were all almost brutally murdered!”

“I do that kind of thing all the time. It doesn’t bother me.”

John shuffled over, taking the other chair opposite. His eyes widened as they fell upon the skull on the mantelpiece, but he didn’t mention it.

“Where did all of-of this come from?” he asked, quickly changing the subject

“Mycroft brought it from my room,” Sherlock replied bluntly

“All of this?” John asked in confusion. There was quite a lot of furniture

“I lived in a big house.”

“Oh,” John nodded, drumming his fingers on the chair

He shuffled slightly in the armchair, glancing worriedly around the flat at the slightest sound.

“You had nightmares,” Sherlock stated

John gave a faint nod

“About the serial killer.”

“Well what else would it have been? When you almost have a bullet put in your brain its bound to give you nightmares,” John mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes

Sherlock just gave him a quizzical look, confused

"What, have you never had nightmares?” John asked spitefully

“No.”

“Of course you haven't. You’re you,” John sighed

 _What the hell is that supposed to imply?_ Trying to bury the hurt of that statement, he began to play his violin, only to stop immediately and place it non- too gently on the floor. It was still out of tune. The kettle suddenly began to scream and John almost jumped out of his skin, glancing around frantically do the source of the noise, clearly prepared to flee if needed .Sherlock sighed and pulled himself up, making his way to the kitchen and quickly made a few mugs of tea. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a flash of realisation hit him. _John could have died. I would have lost my only friend. I would be alone. That was my fault. He would have died because of me. And Molly! I would have killed people!_

“Sherlock?” he felt John poke his face“Sherlock, are you alright?”

He tried to blink away the thoughts that had been racing through his head and was dragged back to the kitchen. There was a mug smashed on the floor, tea trickling over the tiles and polling at his feet. It was mixed with swirls of red, staining the floor, as blood dripped form his fingers where the broken pottery had caught them. He hadn’t even noticed- hadn’t felt the pain. John was staring at him, eyes wide in worry.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock sniffed, quickly locking away the thoughts that had caused this “I was just clumsy.”

John nodded and grabbed his wrist, dragging him to the sink.

“We’ll need to clean that if you don’t want an infection,” he smiled

He turned on the cold tap, placing Sherlock’s hand under the running water. They both watched as the red liquid escaped down the drain and then thankfully disappeared. John turned his hand to face palm up to wash off the last of the blood. He suddenly froze, hand clamping shut around his wrist, causing a jolt of pain to shoot up his fingers. _Oh shit. He noticed-_

“What is that?” John hissed

His eyes were fixed on the jagged, circular burn located at the centre of his palm.

“It’s a-.. um-“

“Don’t lie to me. What is it?”

“You know what it is,” Sherlock sighed. There really was no point in lying. _Cigarette burn._

“This happened yesterday. It definitely wasn’t there before we went to the cafe.”

Sherlock remained silent. He didn’t really want to admit what had happened but he knew John would figure it out anyway. John looked around the flat, eyes wandering over the many items of furniture now scattered across through the rooms. Sherlock could almost hear his thought process.

“Your family?” he asked, staring at him in horror.

“Yep.”

“What do you mean, ‘yep’? This is awful!” John screeched “How could- why did they do this?!”

Sherlock gave a hollow laugh, trying to pull his arm from Johns grasp and failing miserably.

“This is nothing. It’s fine.”

“No its not!”

“It is. Its ok-“

“It’s not ok!”

“Why do you even care so much? It’s just a burn that I probably deserved!” Sherlock shouted back, now losing his almost non-existent patience

“I care because my friend is being hurt!” John shouted “Is it really that hard to understand?”

“Yes!” Sherlock yelled

Johns face instantly fell into confusion and pity and Sherlock realised what he’d said. He was just handing John reasons to feel sorry for him- and he really didn’t mean to. John finally relinquished his grasp on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock turned away to stare at the wall, not wanting to look at Johns expression, and began rubbing his hand to try and get some feeling back into it (as the blood circulation had been cut off by John). _STOP PITYING ME, I DON’T WANT TO BE PITIED._ A careful hand on his shoulder made him jump and turn to stare back at John-who as smiling.

“I know you don’t like being pitied, so I won’t,” he ginned “Sorry for shouting.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock mumbled, before turning away and stumbling towards the sofa, which he promptly flopped onto, choosing to lie face down.

He didn’t want John to see the relief on his face. _At least someone knows something about me other than the fact I'm a freak._

He heard Johns footsteps make their way from the kitchen and looked up slightly to watch him sit in the red armchair. He looked very at home there. He was thinking- boring- so Sherlock opted to continue staring into the fabric of the sofa for a while. _Leather, Spanish, over 10 years old, there are 12- no 13 acid burns and-_

“I’m ordering pizza!”

Sherlock stared up at John in astonishment at the sudden outburst and he just grinned back, without a sign of the previous conversation on his face.

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock grumbled, raising an eyebrow sceptically

John pulled a face of mock horror

“Are you refusing pizza?” he gasped

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up

“No, I’m just asking why the sudden interest in it.”

“Because I like pizza! And I suspect you haven’t had anything to eat since I forced you to have that bit of toast.”

“True,” Sherlock nodded

John pulled out his phone and, as he was about to press dial, suddenly seemed to have an idea and his face lit up. _Oh god, what now?_

“And, if you don’t mind, we’re going to have a Batman marathon so you can brush up on your general knowledge,” John laughed, before pressing dial, deaf to Sherlock’s protests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! I was halfway through his chapter and then remembered I had a Latin project due in I hadn't started and then I had loads of homework and I am SO SORRY!!! I promise I will get the next chapter up ASAP!!! I'M SORRY!!!!! Please elave constructive criticism! :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope you like the chapter?  
> Nighmares

“John, this is stupid,” Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, but refusing to tear his eyes from the screen.

John smirked, taking another piece of pizza. They were now watching their third film, commentary courtesy of Sherlock, who was insisting on pointing out every inconsistency, stupid plot point and obvious solution or mistake. They were both perched on the sofa, about five half-eaten pizzas scattered around them, and the afternoon sun was just beginning to set. Sherlock, despite complaining about the fact that he had ordered so much food, had somehow eaten nearly three pizzas alone, without appearing to have noticed. Not that John was complaining. It was fun doing something normal for a change.

About two hours previously, Sherlock had received an angry phone call from Phelps about how he ‘shouldn’t just run off during a case’ and how he ‘should have stayed to actually say what the hell was going on.’ Apparently the motive was that Arthur, having lost his own daughter, thought it only fair that other families should feel his pain He had targeted girls with the same age and appearance to make it more accurate. John had been silent for a good half an hour after hearing this, mulling it over. He must have really loved his daughter to have done that for her. He’d forced himself to stop dwelling on it when his mind wandered to whether his family would do the same for him. It was too disturbing a thought.

“Who cares if it’s stupid? It’s a good film!” John protested, nudging Sherlock jokingly.

“But none of this is even possible!” Sherlock protested “And it’s all too over-theatrical, poorly planned and the director and writers clearly didn’t have the creative mind or skills to execute this to its full potential.”

John just laughed, brushing of the remarks, and continued to enjoy the film.

-

A few hours later, film finished and the next one droning on, the atmosphere was more subdued. Sherlock’s remarks had slowly dwindled to nothing- if the occasional half-hearted criticism- and John could feel his eyelids beginning to get heavier, each yawn deafening. The explosions on the screen did little to wake him up, just acting as a reason to shut his eyes against the violent, bright splashes of orange painting the walls. It was too bright. Glancing wearily at the clock, he saw it was almost 1o’clock. The dialogue of the characters began to merge, words slurring into something unrecognisable, faces blurring into monsters. The corners of the room were seemingly becoming darker, creeping up on them as the minutes dragged by. Sherlock yawned, pulling his knees up to rest his chin on them, eyes beginning to close. A sudden flash of white on screen forced John to clamp his eyes shut, and, upon opening them again, the darkness had overtaken the place, plunging them into the pitch black of a starless night.

-

The streetlamps glowed with a dull manner around him, manipulating the shadows, twisting them into figures that soon evaporated like smoke, only to reappear seconds later and continue to walk with him. The shops and houses either side of him bore chains across the doors and windows, barring entry through the ghostly frames. The glass sat broken in the windows or lay smashed at his feet, catching on his shoes and causing him to slow. A sudden shout echoed down the dark street, causing the figures around him to suddenly flicker into non-existence, abandoning him. The person was calling his name, rushing towards him, face pale, kind eyes now wide with terror, greying hair tousled and messy.

“John,” Greg spluttered, voice and face shivering in the air “You’ve got to help. Please.”

Startlingly blue tears began to pool in his eyes, running waterfalls down his face. John tried to reply, but was speechless, throat refusing to cooperate, not producing words.

“They killed her, John,” Greg sobbed, face shivering again, like a reflection in water “They killed Molly.”

Loud footsteps rang out behind Greg, sound sending ripples through the air. The unmistakable click of a gun echoed towards them, closely followed by the shot. The deafening crack of it shattered the remaining windows, but it was all too slow, the glass falling like rain around him as Greg faded, eyes filled with horror. John was rooted to the spot, staring as a figure rounded the corner ahead of him. They were entirely cast in silhouette, flickering towards him, a gun appearing heavy in their hands. He felt an icy hand clamp around his wrist and was spun around, staring into those familiar luminescent blue eyes. The pupils were swollen, speckled with grey, creating the illusion of stars.

“We need to get out of here John,” Sherlock whispered urgently, the words having a ripple effect through his eyes, shrinking the pupils to almost the size of pin-pricks “They will kill us.”

A sudden shadow crossed over Sherlock’s face, momentarily extinguishing the blue, casting them into darkness, before it was gone again. John felt a tug at his wrist and was suddenly hurtling along the street, the glass now digging through his shoes and burying the shards deep into his feet. Finally managing to get his voice to work, he shouted a frantic ‘stop!’ and Sherlock immediately came to a halt. He turned to him, face now fully visible and framed with terror. Shadows were beginning to surround them, the figures that had been accompanying him rising from the floor or darting from windows, their ghost-like limbs moving with a fluidity that no physical being could achieve. Again, the clear click of a gun echoed around him, louder this time, the sound causing him to somehow fall forwards. He now had a clear view of the silhouette grasping the gun, aiming at where he had been standing, shadowy fingers passing over the trigger and sending a bullet soaring through the air, scenery crumbling and shattering behind it like pottery and sand. John traced its trail and followed it to Sherlock. He was staring at John, making no attempt to move from its path, pure hatred sparking on his face, but Johns fear reflective in his eyes.

“This was your fault.”

-

John jolted into consciousness, breathing erratic, adrenaline pounding through his veins and beads of sweat forming on his forehead and neck. The darkness surrounding him seemed suffocating, making him unsure if he was awake or simply at another level of his hellish nightmare. _Calm down, its fine, that didn’t happen- couldn’t happen- everyone is alright…_ he trailed off, breathing loud in the silent flat. Outlines of furniture loomed from the darkness, distorting what minute amount of light there had been as it caught on tables and stacks of books. He began to fumble desperately for his watch or phone or **something** so he could see the time- figure out he’d been asleep. Or if he still was. After a minute of frantic searching his hand finally clamped around the cold, but welcome, surface of his phone. Trying to steady his shaking hands, he quickly switched it on and glanced at the time. It was half four. He’d been out about three hours. Rubbing a tired hand over his eyes, he turned off his phone and sank further into the sofa, pulling his knees up into his chest. Only then did he realise that Sherlock was missing. Again fumbling for his phone, he switched on the torch and shone it over the sofa. He was most definitely not there. A blanket had been dumped carelessly next to him and there were various cushions scattered across the floor, which he had probably kicked off the sofa in his sleep. As he tried to pick up on of the cushions, his phone slid form his grasp and landed on the floor with a crack, extinguishing the torch and again plunging him into darkness. _This is not fun. Where the hell is Sherlock._

“John?”

John screeched and spun around to face the voice as a lamp clicked on. Sherlock was lying curled up on his chair, nestled under his coat, and staring at John with bleary eyes.

“Sorry! I-um- I’m…sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” John stuttered, threading his hands nervously through one another, heart pounding.

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, eyes wide and calculating, looking for all the world like a curious owl. His hair was sticking up in awkward spikes,however, also giving him the look of a child.

“You had a nightmare. I was there. You think this could possibly still be part of your dream.”

John nodded, glancing nervously around. _It could still be fake._

Sherlock stood up, stretching, before heading to one of the bookcases and taking down a particularly battered green book before hopping back over to him and shoving it quite unceremoniously into his hands.

In the dim light of the flat, John could just about make out the title scrawled on the front.

“What the hell is this?” he groaned. _This has to still be dream._

“Read it out loud,” Sherlock sighed, jumping to sit on the back of his chair.

“A-An illustrated guide to human decomposition,” John read in distaste “How does this help with anything?”

“You can’t read or write coherent sentences in dreams,” Sherlock stated, rolling his eyes as though it ought to be obvious “So you are awake. I just proved it.”

Oh. John pondered this- flicking back through past nightmares and dreams. Unable to find fault with this revelation, he passed the disturbing book back to Sherlock, who threw it onto the desk amongst the rest of the clutter before flopping forwards to lie on his chair and drawing his coat tightly around his shoulders.

“Sherlock?” John asked in confusion

Sherlock hummed back in response, picking up a nearby folder.

“Why were you sleeping there?”

“My room was too far away.”

John smirked, retrieving his phone, and curled back up on the sofa. A thin crack was stretched across the screen.

“It’s broken,” Sherlock chipped in without so much as looking up

John sighed, dropping the useless gadget back onto the floor. _Brilliant. It’s not like I can just afford a new phone._ Looking back up his eyes lingered on Sherlock. He was wearily flicking through the file (judging by the various pictures of corpses it was clearly a murder case), knees pulled up under his chin, coat hanging limply shoulders and swamping his lanky frame. Between blinks, there was a sudden flash and, before he could blink it away, the scene from his nightmare invaded his vision, bullet racing from somewhere in the shadows while he sat by, paralysed, unable to help. He must have made a sound because Sherlock turned his way, calculating stare fixed carefully on him.

“I’m fine,” he said “Nothing happened to me. It wasn’t real.”

John gave a quick nod, hurriedly turning to hide his face in the sofa, ashamed at his obvious and unsupported worry. He heard the lights click back off and, almost instantly, felt his eyelids get heavier as he slipped off into the inky blackness.

-

An obnoxiously loud ringtone echoed around the flat, stirring John into consciousness. The same must have applied to Sherlock as muttered cursing and him fumbling for his phone sounded from his direction before the sound cut off.

“What?” Sherlock tried to say as menacingly as possible, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the yawn injected in the middle of the word. A few moments of silence “John, get up.”

Sherlock padded over to John, holding out the phone. John took it wearily, yawning

“Hello?”

The obvious sound of repressed laughter sounded from the other end of the line.

“What is it Greg?” John sighed

“Are you two sleeping together?” Greg suggested with an obvious smirk. John was pretty sure that, had he been there, it would have been accompanied with a suggestive, arched eyebrow.

“What the fuck. Why would you even assume that?” John groaned

He went unanswered as Greg burst into unrestrained giggles. He really could be so immature.

“Have you never heard of a sleepover?”

“Sorry, but that's what it sounded like!” Greg replied, trying to stop laughing. Unsuccessfully “And I couldn’t get a hold of your phone and your mum said you were with Sherlock.”

“What did you want?”

“Just wondering if you wanted to meet up?” Greg asked “I haven’t seen you in about four days! That’s, like, forever!”

“Lucky me,” John replied "Sure. Meet me here whenever.”

He hung up.

“Lestrade. You’re leaving,” Sherlock muttered to himself, having now removed himself to the kitchen.

“Yeah, sorry,” John apologised “But thanks for letting me stay.”

“Anytime,” Sherlock scuttled out of the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, and plonked himself back in his chair. “Just make sure to be back to help with this case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure if it fits but the nightmare is by far the most fun thing I have ever written! I work so much better with that kind of stuff :/  
> I've had several similar experiences- as Im sure most people have- and hopefully I captured it well!  
> Hope this was alright! Will update soon, there will be a small time jump just to actually get things to HAPPEN.  
> Please leave review and kudos! (but especially reviews. Please!)
> 
> edit: Sorry, it might take awhile to get the next chapter up as it's quite long and there lots of stuff happening. Please be patient, it is in progress. PLEASE REVIEW> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. ALSO KUDOS :D


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I'm back. Good luck with the chapter- if you like it there's a prize.

He’d never particularly liked the summer. Always too hot and the sun never seemed to want to set. It was nearly 9 o’clock and the sun was still sending its rays through the gaps splitting the curtains. And no, it wasn’t the typical British summer, which was usually more torrential rain that sun, but instead the sun had seemed to be determined on remaining this year. Now that their exams were over people had been saying about how ‘lovely’ it was, how they were going to spend their days lounging about in their gardens or pools or whatever and get a tan. Obviously, Sherlock was planning on none of this. The microscope sitting in front of him and the case files littered on the tables were going to be his entire summer. After nearly two months of exams, he could finally focus his attention fully on things that mattered.

John’s familiar footsteps thundered up the stairs and he burst through the door, the biggest grin plastered on his face.

“Exams are over!” he announced excitedly, trotting into the living room and plonking himself into his armchair.

“I was aware of that John,” Sherlock droned, fluidly switching the microscope slides.

“Oh come on! Cheer up!” John laughed “No exams! We never have to go to school again!”

“I know.”

John sighed at his obvious lack of enthusiasm but elected to ignore it. “What you doing?”

“Analysing poison samples,” Sherlock replied “Phelps managed to get me them from one of the most recent murder cases.”

“Did you solve the disappearance we were looking at then?”

“It was the step-father.”

Over the past month or so they (predominately Sherlock) had been solving whatever Phelps felt like throwing their way between exams or whatever files Sherlock could hack into. Unfortunately- or thankfully as John keeps saying- they had had no more near death experiences.

A sudden shift of Johns foot drew his attention. There was a question John had just remembered.

“What?” Sherlock asked in annoyance “You know how much I hate loud thinking.”

“Are you going to prom then?” John asked carefully, trailing off at the end of the question as if suddenly realising how stupid that sounded.

Sherlock’s hand clamped shut tightly around the looking glass of the microscope, almost causing the class to crack.

“That has got to be one of the most idiotic questions I have ever heard uttered,” Sherlock exhaled “Of course I’m not going. It would involve stepping back into that breeding ground of incompetence we call a school.”

“Alright! I was just asking- no need to be such an arse about it,” John muttered

“I take it that you were planning on attending then?”

“Yeah. I’m taking Molly because neither of us had anyone to go with,” John replied with a weak smile

“So that means you’re a couple now?” Sherlock asked curiously

“What? No! She’s just a mate!” John stammered, immediately going red

“But isn’t that how these things work?” Sherlock replied in defence

“You really don’t know anything about social norms do you?” John sniggered “Have you ever even had a girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” Sherlock stated in distaste “No. Not really my area.”

It took John a few seconds before comprehension of this statement dawned on his face

“Boyfriend then?” he asked nonchalantly

“No,” Sherlock supplied before flicking off the microscope light and hauling himself from his stool to fetch the remainder of the poison samples. John sat in silence for a few more seconds than normal, pondering.

“What of it?” Sherlock snapped in annoyance

“Nothing! Nothing. Its…fine,” John replied awkwardly “Just wanted you to know it’s all fine.”

“I know its fine.”

A few more seconds of deafening silence.

“So are you sure you won’t go to prom?” John whined, changing the subject “It really would be fun.”

“I would rather spend the evening here, doing things that are actually useful, than spend it sulking in a corner of a dark room full of people,” Sherlock stated

“Well, I’ll tell Molly I tried,” John smiled- although clearly not for the reason he was implying- getting up to retrieve their most recent case file “But are you really just going to spend it alone here?”

“Yep.”

-

Of course, when the night of the prom actually came, Sherlock found himself out by the Thames, surrounded by the usual hoard of officers and forensics and looking at the mangled body of what they thought was a 34 year old man. It was kind of hard to determine when he didn’t have much of a body left and was one or two limbs short. Phelps had, as usual, tried to engage in small talk- asking how he was, asking how John was, asking where John was, and asking him just generally a lot about John. She seemed to be quite obsessed with him, but she had received few-if any-replies. _Why would she ask me about him? Why not ask him herself, he’s certainly at enough crime scenes with me._

Circling the remains of the victim, it quickly became obvious- to him anyway- that the death had taken place almost two weeks previously, although the water it had been dragged out of had almost obliterated all evidence of who he was or what had happened. Luckily for him, there was enough.

“Man, recently fired from his job, turned to drink and lottery cards. The results of the blood test prove alcohol and you can tell by the small amounts of scratch card foil stuck in hi nails and the fact that there were 5 lottery tickets-“

“It was just a ball of sodden paper,” Phelps retorted, not convinced.

“Well by the colour coding and the fact that you can clearly see the fact that one had the word ‘lottery’ printed on it, it’s not really that difficult to connect the dots here. Please don’t interrupt when you’re wrong,” Sherlock spat back “He won one lottery- the numbers had been drawn on the back of his left hand in quite some hurry, most likely due to excitement-and those were called last month with winnings of over £1000000.He collected it, seeing as he keeps all the outdate tickets in his jeans-“

“How do you know they’re outdated? He could have been bought them recently,” Phelps cut in again “You’re being ridiculous and this isn’t helping.”

“Please shut up. I don’t care. It’s because someone who is this obsessed with the lottery wouldn’t just leave the tickets in his pocket would he? He went out to spend his money on drinks, as I guess that is the kind of thing people do before somehow ending up in the river. He hadn’t eaten that day, as was also determined by the forensic examinations, so he would have gotten intoxicated much faster than usual. There was nobody keeping an eye on him for this exact reason, as they didn’t expect him to get drunk as quickly as he did. As you are aware, there was a driver’s license somehow still on the body, although mostly destroyed by the water. By the few letters still legible of the address however -“

“Sherlock, just shut up for one second,” Phelps yelled over him, attracting a number of worried glances from the other officers and causing Sherlock to stop in confusion. She was always the one who let him speak and this had never happened.

“You’re getting carried away- more than usual. We all know how clever you are and we don’t need his backstory to prove it. Just tell us what bloody happened,” she sighed, signalling for everyone to carry on as they were “You don’t need to show off, Sherlock. John isn’t here.”

This knocked him completely speechless for a few seconds before he spluttered a reply “I don’t- I don’t show off for…. I don’t….No!”

Phelps gave him a weary smile before motioning for him to continue.

“Well, he went out for a drink, got drunk, fell in the Thames and was carried from Marlow to London on the current, which is what inflicted this damage,” Sherlock finished half-heartedly, gesturing to the missing limbs of the corpse.

“So it wasn’t murder? Just an accident?” Phelps asked to clarify

Sherlock gave a brief nod, still trying to comprehend her comment. _I don’t show off for John. Why would I do that? I’m just a show off anyway. Not for John. She’s wrong._

Phelps had finished briefing another officer on where to find this man’s family and to neglect needs of a murder inquiry before she turned back.

“Thank you Sherlock,” she smiled “Would you like a coffee? Or are you just going to run off now you’ve done your job?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm and yes, coffee would be great,” Sherlock replied in annoyance.

Phelps ducked into her squad car to retrieve a flask and mugs before making her way over. The forensic team where weaving around everyone, trying to clear up the scene now they had the results they needed. Sherlock wrapped his hands quickly around the mug, gathering whatever warmth he could from it. The sun, although still lingering on the horizon at this late hour, was failing to keep anyone warm, so whatever scarves and coats they could find had been dragged from cars and bags while those without had been forced to rely on the several flasks being passed around. There was a very communal spirit to this case for some reason and Sherlock wasn’t at all comfortable with it. He wished John was there.

Suddenly, as if on cue, his phone began buzzing and, dropping the mug to the ground to the curses of Phelps, he fumbled around in his pockets until his hand clamped shut around it.

“John? Why are you phoning me?” Sherlock sighed “You know I prefer to text.”

Loud and quite annoying giggling came from the other end of the line with the sounds of shouting, laughing and deafening music almost overpowering it.

“Hi Sherlock,” John laughed “What you doing?”

“Why are phoning me?”

“Felt like it.”

“John-“

“One second! Let me speak!” John took a deep breath as if to make an announcement before being offset by a sudden outbreak of hiccups, prompting raucous laughter from whoever else was there.

“Oh for gods sake! Are you drunk?” Sherlock spat

“No! Of course I’m not… drunk. Why would I be?” John sounded genuinely hurt

“I thought you were at prom! Why did you leave?” Sherlock shrieked. He had no idea why he cared so much and had attracted quite a number of amused stares.

“How do you know I’m not still there? You have no PROOF,” John slurred, shouting the last word in triumph

“I’m not an idiot-“

“No, but you are being really annoying.”

“Where are you?” Sherlock asked quietly, trying to repress whatever stupid feelings of hurt had arisen at this statement.

“Deduce it.”

“John, just tell me-“

“Find out yourself. You’re the smart one.”

“Fine!” Sherlock shouted, promptly hanging up

Pushing past whomever necessary, he ran out onto the nearest road, searching for a cab. John had been unnecessarily harsh then. Even though he was drunk-for whatever reason, he had no idea- he was finding it increasing difficult not to take what he had said to heart. _Don’t be so pathetic. He just said you were annoying, hardly much to worry about._

 

-

Pulling up at the school gates about half an hour later, Sherlock called for the cab to wait and quickly set about asking after John. Most people responded by throwing whatever half-baked insult they could his way before electing to ignore him. There seemed to be few people there however, so it didn’t take him that long to locate a friendly face.

“Molly!” Sherlock called, spotting her hovering by the refreshments stand and running over.

“Sherlock hi!” she gushed, instantly goign almost the same shade of pink as her dress “John said you weren’t coming.”

“I’m not. Do you know where John is?” Sherlock asked quickly, not wanting to be dragged off topic.

“Yeah,” Molly replied, her face turning stony “He went off with… I think her name's Jeanette? He went with her to some house party about two hours ago.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere off Fleet street? I don’t really know, sorry,” Molly supplied, before glancing over his shoulder, a bright smile blooming across her face at the sight of an approaching boy “Have you met Tom before? He’s been keeping me company and is actually really nice. You two might get along-“

Sherlock had already turned away, shoving past whoever Tom was, and jumped back into the cab.

-

It was horrifically obvious where John was as they pulled onto Fleet Street. There were teenagers spilling out of the doors of one of the smaller houses into the now dark street, staggering into the road, shouting abuse to each other or just standing around looking utterly lost. Bottles were strew haphazardly across the pavement, most lying smashed underfoot or being thrown through windows of nearby houses and cars. Sherlock stepped carefully out of the car and, avoiding the puddles of broken glass, manoeuvred his way through he bands of people up to the front door. There he was forced to step over someone who had passed out in the doorway before finally being inside. The atmosphere was suffocating, people packed tightly into every corner, drinks in hand, laughing and there were several couples dotted around with tongues down each other’s throats. The unmistakeable stench of cannabis located itself in the murkier corners of the rooms, driving those around the smokers away in disgust or drawing in those who were used to it. It was terrible. There was no way he would be able to locate John here without being forced to interact with anyone.

Pushing past into the back garden he found a significantly more sober group of teenagers, clearly having been dragged here by others who weren’t really enjoying the party. Among this group was Sarah- John’s ex-girlfriend.

“Have you seen John Watson anywhere?” Sherlock asked her as politely as he could, masking his hatred of the situation

“Hi,” she replied, slightly bleary eyed, trying to work out who he was “I think I saw him upstairs? I don’t really know or particularly care.”

Great.

“Do you think you could find him for me?” Sherlock sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood for having to battle his way through crowds of drunk teenagers more than was absolutely necessary.

Sarah laughed before giving him a hard shove, sending him back a few steps, and then turned back to talk to her friends. _Thanks anyway._

Sherlock ran back into the house and up the stairs, ducking under a fight that had begun in the hall. There were less people there so it was much easier not to get pushed over or have to worry about spilling anyone’s drink. There was no way Sherlock was going to risk opening a single door as, judging by what he could here from behind some of them, he would most definitely not be well received. Instead, he decided to simply shout Johns name as loudly as he possibly could above the din.

A few seconds later, John came stumbling through one of the doors, rubbing his eyes and looking incredibly pale. Sherlock instantly took a few quick steps over, grabbing John by the upper arm and hauling him down the corridor. To his complete surprise, John didn’t say a word and just blindly followed him thought he crowds of people and back out onto the street to find a cab. They didn’t stop walking until the loud music and wolf-whistles directed their way had been silenced by the sounds of the London night. Only then did John finally say something.

“I didn’t think you’d actually turn up,” John mumbled, staggering to a stop “I was being a complete arse.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

“I don’t know the hell I ended up like this. I didn’t drinking that much…” John trailed off, clutching at his head and clamping his eyes shut

“Are you alright?” Sherlock probed, ignoring the granted mistakes in his speech, seeing that John was clearly not in the best of conditions and looked like he as on the verge of collapse.

“Nope. I feel like complete shit,” John groaned before trying to step forward. He veered violently to the left, tripping over the curb and fell face first onto a grass verge.

It would have been comical had he not been in this state. Sherlock lowered himself onto the grass next to John, pulling one of his arms over his shoulder and hauling him back to his feet.

“We’ll get a taxi back to my flat. Your family will kill you if they see you like this,” Sherlock stated.

“Oh fuck. I forget about them. Harry’ll-“ he cut off mid-sentence and began giggling maniacally for no reason.

Sherlock sighed and continued to pull John along, looking for the nearest taxi.

“Am I annoying?” John yawned

“Well you’re quite lucky I can tolerate you. I wouldn’t have bothered helping you had I not been able to.”

John then continued with his incessant giggling, ignoring Sherlock’s response.

Unfortunately, no cabs were willing to take them, slowing when hailed by Sherlock but quickly speeding off again after it became quite obvious that one of them was drunk. They found themselves having to walk, Sherlock stumbling occasionally while trying to keep John from falling.

“How long is this going to take?” John whined, leaning more heavily on Sherlock’s shoulder

“Well it takes 27 minutes on the bus, so about an hour and a half,” Sherlock spat back, trying not to overbalance and fall into the road “It would have been much quicker if you weren’t completely pissed!”

John muttered a few unintelligible curses before pulling away from Sherlock and planting himself heavily on the nearest wall.

“John,” Sherlock stated firmly, hoping for him to move. No response “John, I wouldn’t actually mind getting home at some point so could you please move.”

Again, John ignored him.

“Stop being an idiot and pay attention!” Sherlock screeched, losing what little patience he had managed to retain and taking a few threatening steps forward

“I just want to sit down for a few minutes!” John yelled back, eyes blazing

“You guys having another domestic?” someone commented rather loudly

Sherlock glanced up and found himself staring at the familiar camper van. Lestrade was grinning at them from the driver’s seat, having pulled over. John gave a weak wave

“Hi Greg.”

“No comment? What the hell is wrong with you?” Lestrade asked in mock alarm, getting out of the van to join them

“Got drunk,” John muttered in reply

“You?!”

“It was an accident!” John scowled “And what are you doing out at two in the morning?”

“He was at a party and was the designated driver,” Sherlock snarled

“Well would you-“ Lestrade began, but was quickly cut off

“Like a lift? Yes that would be great,” Sherlock shoved past Lestrade and pulled John roughly to his feet before flinging the back door open and dragging him into the van.

Lestrade clambered into the front and- with a slowness that was almost painful- pulled away, sparing him a look of surprise in the wing mirror. John had managed to somehow take up over half the seat they were both perched on, feet resting on the chair opposite, eyelids drooping. Lestrade ignored them mostly, opting for shouting abuse at the occasional reckless driver for actions he had made less than five minutes ago. Sherlock just stared out of the windows, taking in the familiar look of London at night- all but handful of cars had disappeared from the roads, shops and houses dark and foreboding. He allowed himself to channel all his current, unfounded anger into the furious drumming of his fingers against the seat. A sudden weight at his shoulder drew his attention. John had fallen asleep, breathing loud, resting against Sherlock, face pressed into his shoulder. Brilliant. Sherlock gave him a light shove to no effect. Lestrade, having caught sight of them, turned to face him and quickly whispered

“Don’t wake him up. He’ll be really pissed.”

“Well what do you suggest I do instead?” he hissed back

Lestrade didn’t reply, instead giving him a thumbs-up before turning back to the road. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted slightly so John would be able to breath, wishing the flat was closer.

-

Mrs Hudson was livid. Of course, she had gotten used to Sherlock stumbling through the front door at god knows what hour, but she clearly wasn’t happy that this time he had dragged an intoxicated friend along. It was probably to do with the vase John had smashed on the way in, having overbalanced and sent it flying, spilling the contents all over the floor. She had, however, offered to help Sherlock drag him upstairs. John wasn’t particularly sure enough on his feet to navigate the stairs. Once in the flat, having turned down Mrs Hudson offer of tea, she instead rushed off to collect the spare blankets and pillows she kept in her flat- but only after Sherlock had assured her that, no, they were not sharing the bedroom.

“This is the last time I’m doing this, boys,” she warned, bustling back, arms piled high with blankets “Next time I will definitely not be so forgiving.”

It was obvious by her tone that she would continue doing this for hundreds of years if need be, so Sherlock just gave a muttered thanks, as did John.

“I’m really sorry about this,” John mumbled, clutching his forehead and curling up on the sofa “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Sherlck just shrugged, riffling through one of the files on the desk

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Johns phone began to ring. He paled in response, instantly throwing it Sherlock’s way.

“That’ll be my parents. If I pick up, they’ll know I’m pissed.”

Sherlock sighed and lazily pressed answer.

“Hello?”

“Who the fuck is this? Why do you have Johns phone?” someone spat, muffled shouting in the background, chastising the caller on her swearing

“This is Harry I presume?” Sherlock replied calmly

“What’s it to you? Where’s John?”

“He’s with me, no cause for alarm.”

“Then who the hell are you?”

“We haven’t met. This is Sherlock,” he replied icily, trying not to lose his temper again at her lack of patience.

“Oh,” she breathed, realising her mistake “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Sherlock hissed

“I can see why John likes you. Nice voice.”

“I’m sorry?” he spluttered at the sudden turn in conversation “What do you-“

“If that’s Harry just put her on loudspeaker,” John groaned, to which Sherlock complied

“Hi Harry,” John said, with all the coherency he could muster

“John!” she shrieked, making them both wince “Why the hell didn’t you call? Mum's been worried sick! What the fuck?!”

“Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied,” John replied angrily “Is Mum there?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Don’t let her hear this,” John pleaded, and the sound of a door slamming echoed to them

“What happened?” Harry asked eagerly

“I went to a house party and got pissed.”

“You?!” she snorted “Hypocrite.”

“It was an accident!” John protested

“Sure it was. Well, I’ll tell everyone you’re safe,” she laughed “We’ve got a lot to discuss when you get back. Have fun with your boyfriend!”

After which she abruptly ended the conversation and hung up. John groaned and buried his face in the pile of blankets. Sherlock just hovered there, unsure of what to do next. A few minutes later, John resurfaced, and pulled the blankets over him, saying a muffled goodnight. Sherlock huffily switched off the lights, making his way to his room. _I might as well make some progress on the next case._

-

“Oh for fucks sake!” Sherlock sat bolt upright at the shout. He’d been lost organising his mind palace for the past two hours, having solved every case he could without having to leave the flat. Pulling himself sluggishly from his room, he made his way to the living room to see what the fuss was about.

John was sitting up, phone clutched to his ear, dusty blond hair somehow managing to cover his eyes. Sherlock was about to ask what the shouting was about when John jumped up, rushing to grab his jacket.

“Oh god, seriously?” he yelled excitedly “I’ll be there asap!”

After which he hung up.

“My college letter came!” he stated proudly, fumbling as he tried to pull his shoes on “So I’ve got to go.”

Sherlock gave a brief nod, turning to go back to his room

“Thanks for helping! I’ll phone and update you!” John shouted, running down the stairs and slamming the front door. How he managed all this with the splitting headache caused by his hangover, Sherlock wasn’t quite sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone for so long! This was a difficult chapter to write, not to mention I wrote in in 3 different textbooks, 5 notebooks and 4 word documents. It was a nightmare to piece together. Also, this is the 7th version of it. So, all in all, this is the best I could do. I meant to update sooner but just SO MUCH STUFF has gone down over the last month and I've been having a shitty time, so I wrote when I could. I apologise profusely for the quality of the writing. The next chapter will be better. Promise. Comment and kudos are very welcome! Please?
> 
> (ps, the prize is that I update within the next two weeks. Which I will)


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Finally back, sorry for being gone so long, have a chapter to make up for it if anyone is still interested.

The joy of his parents as he had opened the letter was reflecting poorly on John. No one had expected him to just stare blankly at the words, no sign of accomplishment or pride on his features, hopelessly trying to change what they said, little to show he was even remotely pleased. He was, of course he was! He’d gotten into a decent college after all! Just… not the right one. It was selfish of him, it really was. He knew that. He’d already received several phone calls from what acquaintances he had, asking after him. All had replied with jealousy, wishing him bitter luck, halfhearted congratulations being thrown his way. Nobody else had managed what he had. Granted, Molly had phoned, squealing about how she had gotten onto her selected courses at their chosen college, gleefully asking if he would be joining her to study there. She’d been shocked at the no she received.

“But you should have gotten in! You worked so hard!” she sympathised- but it had only dropped his mood further.

The letter now lay discarded on the kitchen table while John desperately tried to think of something he could do, while his mother tried to calm him down.

“I didn't even apply for this college! You and Dad did!” he yelled in defeat “How am I even supposed to study there? It’s not in London!”

“We can find you a flatmate, I’m sure there will be others in this situation John!” his mother replied as consolingly as she could. She had definitely not been expecting this reaction

“Flatmate?! I’m sixteen! I don’t even want to leave home yet, let alone go and live with someone I don’t know!”

“Well I’m afraid that is what you’re going to have to do seeing as this is the only offer you received,” his father chipped in gruffly.

John was speechless. He was stuck; there was absolutely nothing he could do. He was going to have to move out in the next few weeks if he wanted to go to college; if he wanted to study medicine. Harry was lingering in the doorway, the joking mood from that morning gone. She knew all too well what college could do for you. Her life was pretty much ruined because she had dropped out. She couldn't get into Uni, couldn't follow what she’d wanted to- and she was definitely going to try her best to stop him making the same mistake. The house was suddenly too small for this colossal problem and he couldn't take it. Tearing past the three stunned figures he threw open the front door and ran haphazardly down the street. The next few weeks would be horrific- trying to find somewhere to live easily topping the list. It seemed like years ago that he had excitedly rushed home, never really expecting this to happen.

“Calm the fuck down John. It’s not that bad,” he muttered into the morning air, closing his eyes for a brief second and taking deep breaths “It’s not that bad.”

He wandered through the lonely streets, trying not to lash out at anyone who crossed his path, wanting to be alone with his destructive thoughts. The problems began to puzzle out at a snails pace in his head and were disregarded behind him as he walked- hopefully never to be seen again. There were few people around, most being at work or back at school, and John found it comforting knowing that he wasn't alone in this predicament. Surely others would be in the same position, right? It just wasn't possible that it was only him that had been shaken awake at the harsh reality that everything wasn't working out as planned. Hell, maybe others were in the exact same situation. Lied to and being carted out of their homes all for educations sake. He allowed himself a minute smile as it occurred to him that he'd probably gotten better off than many others. Wearily checking his watch, he realised in shock that almost an hour had passed since he stormed out. He pulled out his phone and quickly notified his family that he wouldn't be back for a while, completely ignoring the sting of missed call messages and concerned texts. He finally resolved to just spend the rest of the day slouched in a quite cafe somewhere, drowning himself in coffee rather than self-pity.

 

-

The screeching of a police siren jolted him awake- face sore from where it had hit the table when he crashed. Five hours sleep plus a slowly receding hangover really didn't seem to go together. The squad car sped past the windows of the cafe, momentarily illuminating the place with its fluorescent blue lights, splashing the dull white chairs and tables with colour. He'd chosen a fairly empty place near kings cross station where the barista skulking about was bored looking and the only other occupant was an old man dozing in the window seat. The sun was high in the sky now but barley illuminated the tired walls of the cafe, meaning John had just fallen asleep. However, the unwelcome sensation of eyes boring into the back of his skull made him turn to face the sour-faced barista, who was staring daggers at him. He'd obviously overstayed his welcome. Getting up and stretching, he ambled out into the now bustling street, full of gossips wondering where that car had been going. John wasn't remotely curious and just let the stories of murder and robbery wash over him. He'd had enough of that over the past couple of weeks and couldn't care less at the moment. Just his luck when, after mistakenly following the smae path, he came across the taped off office block and the usual bunch of police personnel, accompanied by their teenage detective swishing around in his bloody coat. John gave a disgruntled sigh and tied to sneak past unnoticed. _Maybe he just won't notice-_

"John, are you following me?"

_Nope. Idiot. You know he notices everything._

"I think you're the one following me actually," John grumbled, coming face to face with his friend "And I'm not really in the mood to chat."

Sherlock opened his mouth to no doubt shed light on the reasons why he was miserable, but John beat him to it.

"No I didn't get into the college I wanted, yes, I am probably moving out of London and yes, I am unhappy about it," he spat "I don't need you to spell it out for me."

Sherlock stood stunned for a few seconds, unused to the hostility, and for once seemed speechless.

"I was merely going to offer my apologies," he spluttered

"No you weren't," John scoffed, livid at the fact he was trying to backtrack "You wanted to show off, as per usual."

"No I wasn't!" Sherlock stated in defense "I-"

"You never apologise for anything! You never show even a hint of remorse! So why the hell don't you just go and act smart around them instead of me?" John spat, gesturing at the officers surrounding them, glaring up at Sherlock.

Sherlock took a step back, shock flickering across his face, shortly followed by rage. Suddenly, he was the same cold figure that John had stumbled across in the alleyway- defensive, indifferent and wounded. Now it was Johns turn to back away, the sudden realisation that he had overstepped hitting him like a bullet. He'd definitely said too much and immediately began stuttering an apology, but it fell upon deaf ears.

"Fine. I couldn't care less whether you're going to be attending your chosen college. It doesn't affect me in the slightest," he replied icily "And Mrs Hudson was wondering where you are. You're late for work. You could finally tell her how much you actually hate the low pay or maybe even admit that you lifted money from the register to buy Sarah a Valentines gift last year."

He then turned away in apparent triumph and disappeared through the office block door, leaving John stunned on the other side of the police tape.

-

It was a slow afternoon. John sat idly behind the register, staring into an empty coffee mug and only stirring to check the time. He'd really fucked it up this time. He'd already been subjected to the worst morning of his life, but now he had utterly destroyed his friendship with Sherlock in one of the briefest arguments he had ever taken part in. This wasn't a time where an apology would be enough to fix everything. What the hell was I thinking?! The bell rung and John glanced up as Mary ambled over, giving him a weak smile. He lifted his hand in a pathetic wave before resorting back to idleness.Mary took the stool directly in front of him and made no attempt at conversation, leaving both of them to sit in the silence only broken by the periodic ticking of the clock. Finally, Mary broke the silence.

"So you didn't get into your college either huh?" she sighed

John glanced up "However did you guess?"

Mary gave a small smile "I'm sorry."

"Where'd you get into then?" John wondered aloud

"Some place out of London. Who cares? Its nowhere near where I wanted to go," she replied bitterly "You?"

"Same as you- maybe its the same place," he joked feebly

A few minutes later, having both admitted where they were heading, he was proved right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I kept meaning to write- I had no intention of being gone this long. School just kind of hit me like a brick and I've had neither the time nor the energy to write. I am so very sorry! This is just a quick update- I just wanted to get a chapter up and will be writing again this weekend. I actually mean it this time. I will not leave for this long again. If I do, just threaten me into writing. I didn't put a name for the college as I A. Couldn't come up with a fake one for the life of me and B. Didn't want to just pick a random college for the sake of plot. I will come up with something in later chapters. I know that this is the 3 billionth argument they've had, but this one is more prominent and sets a lot in motion. Kudos and comment! Pretty please?


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlocks POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and I dragged another character with me.

It had been an almost an entire month since their latest- and apparently last- argument. Sherlock still couldn't figure out how he'd messed up so tremendously or why he suddenly cared so much. Every Saturday since, he'd stayed silent in the flat listening to the muffled chatting and laughing drifting up the stairs. The only vaguely positive thought he could muster was that at least he wouldn't have to be dragged down to 'socialise' anymore. Not that he had really been socialising. However, it always caused him a sudden pang of guilt whenever he heard John laughing. He didn't even know what had gone wrong. John had shouted at him and that usually resolved itself within a few days, but this time there had been nothing. Not even a measly text. So it must have been him who had caused this. All other possibilities had been eliminated leaving only the most grim option. Mrs Hudson kept berating him, throwing encouraging phrases at him such as 'but you seemed like such good friends', 'you get along like a house on fire! I'm sure he'll accept an apology' and easily the most memorable 'you teenagers are so stubborn. Just apologise so you can stop moping about.' Apologise for what exactly he still had no clue. Nevertheless, despite her disapproval of the abrupt termination of their friendship, she must have noticed how down he was. There'd been mountains of biscuits populating the cupboards of 221B for weeks now and Sherlock was certain that he wasn't the one buying them. Mycroft had been no help either. He'd visited twice which was more than Sherlock would have liked by around two visits. He'd dropped off files-mostly cold cases he needed solving and couldn't be bothered to- and one of his thousands of umbrellas. _Helpful_.

He'd run out of things to occupy himself with some days ago. Every vial of acid, all solutions and tubs of metal shavings had run dry. As he had...liberated them from school it had proven difficult to get supplies that weren't ridiculously overpriced. This, combined with his lack of company and surprisingly few murders for the time of year (it had been a lazy summer for everyone apparently), had caused him to hit rock bottom and he'd spent the last week or so with lights off, doors locked, curtains drawn and the mindnumbingly idiotic sound of daytime television blaring throughout the flat. He could now begrudgingly admit that he knew the theme for Jeremy Kyle note by note. Not that it was compeltley wasted time- it could be fun attempting to deduce who was cheating on who. Not that he even would admit it. Ever. Mrs Hudson had almost fallen down the stairs laughing when she realised what he was constantly shouting at.

"Of course hes not the boys father!" he yelled, throwing a dirty test-tube towards the television and shattering it on the screen "Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

The girl on screen suddenly proceeded to completely contradict him and flung her arms around the fake father as if her sole purpose in life was to make Sherlock's life a living hell. The idiocy suddenly overwhelmed him and he grabbed a cushion, pressing it down hard on his face. _How could people be so stupid_ _?_

"Jeremy Kyle? Wouldn't have pegged you as the type."

Sherlock sat bolt upright to stare towards the door. His gaze was met by steely blue eyes and a snide grin. Disinterested, he slumped back down onto the sofa.

"What are you doing here Irene?" he droned

She stepped further into the room, curious eyes flickering about the worn furniture and the bomb site masquerading as a kitchen. She was clearly out of place, arms drawn in close, steps small and wary. He smirked.

"I'm here to visit of course Mr Holmes," she perched on his armchair, gaze swinging to meet his, eyes wide and expectant.

 _Mr Holmes?_ He hadn't been called that from anyone under 50.

"Why?"

"Because I felt like it. From what Johns said, you're fascinating," she stated, brushing non-existent dust from her skirt.

"You broke into my flat," Sherlock sighed "Because you felt like it."

Irene shrugged, her sparkling grin directed toward him.

"Lying."

She raised a sculpted eyebrow "How so? I only wanted to talk, there's nothing untoward in that."

Sherlock hummed dismissively and stood. He could feel her eyes tracking him as he threw opens the curtains, illuminating the mountains of dirty mugs and plates piled on every available surface, broken beakers filling whatever space remained. He glanced back just in time to catch her look of disgust, drawing her arms and legs in even closer in fear of being contaminated before her plastic smile was back in place.

"You clearly don't want to be here. You're disgusted, so why not just tell me why you're here and you can be on your way"

Suddenly, Irene became fascinated by the ceiling. Minutes passed in absolute silence, Irene becoming visibly more disturbed as Sherlock looked at her, her resolve wearing down with each tick of the clock. Finally she sighed, pouting.

"Fine. I'll cut straight to the chase. I'm not really one for faffing about anyway," she stood, trying to meet his height "I'm here for a friend. 'Scoping you out' as he put it. So far I'm fairly disappointed."

Sherlock simply mirrored her and raised an eyebrow in response.

"I don't know what I expected. Maybe a fully functioning laboratory or even a clean flat, not a-"

"A friend?" Sherlock cut through, not really bothered about Irene's ramblings about dirt

"Yes. I mentioned you for some bizarre reason and he's obsessed. He's barely shut up about you and made me repeat every story, every bloody thing, I've heard from John. Word for word," She replied, exasperated "He's hoping I'll introduce you to him."

"That's a shame," he sighed, moving to throw open the door "Tell him to piss off. Get out of my flat."

He gestured to the open door. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed as Irene glanced between him and the open door repeatedly.

“Fine,” she said finally “I’ll leave. I don’t know why I bothered.”

She strutted out of the flat and back downstairs without glancing back. Sherlock slammed the door, grabbed his phone and called Mycorft, opting to nettle him for a case. He didn’t want to be there when Irene’s mysterious friend came knocking.

-

The usual British summer had begun to blow over and the sun was finally out, baking the pavements dry and sending dust clouds out across the roads and parks- as was normal for the weeks leading up to September. This time last year he’d have been trying to prepare for the torturous school year ahead. It was nice to be free of it and-as he hadn’t planned on going to college- it gave him more time for more important things. Mycroft had managed to find him a case involving a suspicious suicide near Piccadilly. Really boring and not really his usual type of case, but something to keep him occupied nonetheless. That bastard DI Dimmock had been bossing him about, shouting at him for not handling evidence correctly, for not putting on a forensic suite and all manner of other pointless things before he’d stormed off. They didn’t believe it was actually just a suicide and there was no point in trying convincing them. Some people could just be so miraculously dense.

-

On the way back, he stopped off to grab some food before getting a taxi back to Baker Street. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual meal and didn’t want to accidently starve to death. Mycroft would probably die laughing. Mrs Hudson had gone shopping so all the lights were off when he let himself in. Flicking on a light, he saw a shadow flit across the top of the stairs. There was nothing up there capapble of creating ashadow like thnat. It was too big a shadow to eb Mrs Hudson-plus, she would have heard the door and shouted to him. It wasn’t Mycroft, he would have straightened the door knocker and it obviously wasn John.There wasn't anyone else. Robber then. the thought of calling the police briefly crossed his mind only to be crushed. He didn't need them, he could handle it himself. carefully, he began climbignt he stairs, umbrella forming some pathtic barrier infront of him. I must look ridiculous. there was no sign of another soul on the landing so, hesitantly, he wrapped a hand around the cold emtal fo the door handle and pushed, bursting intot he living room.

No one.

He wheeled around, checking the kitchen, every corner but there was definatley nobody there. With a huff, he threw the umbrella in the genral direction of the sofa and took a step towards the empty kitchen. He froze. The kitchen was certainly not as empty as it should have been.

"Mr Holmes. I've been dying to meet you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Quick update while I work on the next one. I know I've said before that I'll update more often or that I keep meaning to update etc. but truth is that I've been so busy that this has become one of my much lesser priorities. Chapters are and are unfortunately going to continue belong infrequent. But I promise I won't abandon this. Updates may take a while- as this one has- but I refuse to leave this before its done. I'm holding myself to this promise. Anyway, enjoy the chapter! I've planned the next one so fingers crossed I'll get it done soon. (I know, I know, I've said that before. Its getting bloody repetitive, but I'll try)


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter, but there is a Mycroft.  
> I got Charmedwho20 to beta this so hopefully there'll be no to very few mistakes

John stood in the middle of his empty room staring around at the blank walls, now stripped of posters, and out of his small window. The familiar view of compact gardens and the London skyline stretching away stared back, buildings disappearing on the horizon with the distant silhouette of the shard watching over. He was going to miss it. He'd visited his new flat and it made his tiny house seem a palace. But that was fine. Of course it was. All that really mattered was that it was cheap. And it was definitely cheap... _And cold and cramped and filthy and quiet and boring and unwelcome and-_

"No," John muttered firmly, halting his inner monologue immediately "it's fine. Stop fussing and get over it. It's fine. "

Taking a deep breath he turned out of his room, anger refusing to subside.

"John? Did you finish packing up? We need to take everything down as soon as possible, " his mum called, leaning around a doorframe into the hall and blocking his way to the front door.

John hummed in conformation before shoving roughly past her and taking his coat. His mother sighed in annoyance behind him.

"John. You need to stop this, we only did what we thought was best. We were trying to help, " she stated firmly.

_And I never asked for it._

He threw open the front door, leaving it to slam closed as he stormed off into the cool summer night.

-

The last month had been lonely. Sure, there'd been Mary to talk to and her friend Mike who he was going to be sharing a flat with, but other than them there'd been no-one. He'd stopped talking to his parents, Harry had moved out again, Molly was on holiday, Greg had gone to university two weeks previously and talking to Sherlock was out of the question. He wasn't even sure where he was as the flat had been silent for weeks. _Maybe he's buggered off somewhere and left me too_ he thought grimly.

 _And why should I care?_ He sniffed, pulling his jacket closer. He'd said such... awful things. Truthful of course, but he hadn't needed it shouted out for the world to hear. But then again, he had been the one to lose his cool and begin throwing insults about... _NO. No, it was Sherlock. Not you. It wasn't you..._

"Oh for fucks sake!" He suddenly yelled, voice cutting harshly through the summer air and startling an approaching old woman.

Why was he in constant denial about every bloody aspect of his life?! Couldn't one thing- one measly, insignificant little thing- go right for once? He kicked out at the nearest wall in frustration, cracking some stones from the concrete and scattering them across the pavement, pain shooting through his foot.

"FUCK," he yelled again in frustration, this time taking a swing at the next lamppost, knuckles cracking painfully on the wood.

"Shit," he muttered, clutching his injured hand to his chest and glanced around to check if anyone had seen.

This time he'd drawn the attention of a man putting out the bins, who quickly pretended he hadn't been talking to the old woman. Stepping out onto the pavement, he put on the most plastic smile John had ever seen.

"Sounded painful, mate," he grinned, glancing over John's shoulder nervously "What's up?"

John followed his gaze and saw the old woman talking hurriedly into a phone, fear shooting across her face as she met his gaze. John took a deep breath, anger threatening to bubble over again. _Oh my god._

"Who's she phoning?," he muttered

The man flushed at the question, squinting at the woman "I have no idea. I don't know her."

"Are you calling the police?"

The man gave a strangled laugh "Wherever did you get that idea?"

"Oh my god, you've called the police," John sighed, rubbing a weary hand over his face.

Nope. Apparently nothing could go right. Ever.

The man was blubbering away, probably stalling so the police could get there before he legged it. There was no way in hell he wanted to have a nice long chat with some snobbish officer about damaging property. He made to just walk away but felt a strong hand grab his upper arm.

"Sorry young man but you're going to have to wait here."

"You can't be serious," John spat

The man only nodded, grip tightening to the point of pain.

"GET. OFF," John stated, voice dripping with disgust.

No response.

John stared up into the man's face, deciding whether or not breaking his nose would be worth the fallout, when an impossibly suave car pulled up next to them from where it had previously been lurking further down the road. The door opened to a tall man- much taller than John- impeccably dressed in a pinstriped suit, hair slicked back and a ridiculous pocket watch swinging gracefully on a gold chain from his chest. It was as if etiquette had been personified.

"Ah, John," he grinned, offering his hand.

John ignored it. In response, the strange man just pulled a face in mock confusion.

"I trust that you have not forgotten our appointment?"

Everything had gone to hell. First he'd had the police called on him by some righteous prat and now he was stuck in the middle of what appeared to be some botched kidnap attempt.

"No actually, I don't remember making an appointment," John answered, mimicking the strangers pretentious tone "So would you be ever so kind and bugger off?"

All were silent as he seemed to ponder this, the man's grip on his arm loosening in his confusion. He could just run. But... this was the most interesting thing that'd happened to him in weeks- _for fucks sake John._

_You're not Sherlock._

_You don't want to get abducted just to see what'll happen._

_Don't be stupid._

Finally the stranger spoke up.

"Are you sure you don't remember Mr Watson?"

As if on queue, a police car pulled into view at the top of the road. There was no way he was going to get in it.

"Actually yeah, I remember it," John sputtered, heart pounding as he took a step towards the car "Lets go."

"Wait, you can't just leave!" the man on the pavement shouted, taking a step towards the snobbish one.

"Yes. We can."

John swung himself into the back seat hurriedly, not wanting to get on the wrong side of either of them, and was closely followed by the stranger who pulled the door closed with a quiet click. Without looking at John, he turned to the driver, face devoid of whatever emotions it had been harbouring only seconds ago.

"Drive."

-

However, as they pulled into a derelict underground car park, all thoughts of escape fled his mind. The man had sat in silence the entire time and John mimicked him. He didn't want to be murdered before he'd at least had a chance to escape. The car ground to a halt and John's door clicked open, a stoic woman clad in black holding it open. He stumbled out, glancing about for an escape route.

"There's no point in running Mr Watson, I have no interest in harming you," the man sighed

_Nice one John._

"It's just wanted to talk."

John flung his arms in the air in exasperation, wheeling around to face him "Then why did you kidnap me!? If you wanted to chat then you could have done earlier! "

The stranger smirked, having gotten out of the car and taken a place next to John.

"Yes, but I thought getting you away from police would be appreciated," he continued through John's confused silence "waiting so you could get a fine for disturbing the peace would not have made a shining first impression on my part. "

John stood gawping at the stranger "Who the hell are you? "

"That is not of concern, " he sniffed "I'm here to talk to you about Sherlock Holmes. "

 _Oh_. All fret for his wellbeing evaporated. Sherlock had mentioned this a while back.

"You're Mycroft aren't you? "

The man's confused silence was quickly dispersed as he composed himself "I see my brother has mentioned me."

John let out an undignified snort of laughter to Mycroft's obvious disgust "Mentioned you? He never stops complaining about you."

Mycroft scowled at him "And how would you know that Mr Watson? We may have put our differences behind us."

"I'm sorry?" John spat "What the hell are you talking about?"

 "Your childish feud."

John took a step back in bewilderment. So that's what this git dragged me out here for?

"I don't think that's any of your business. "

"That's where you're wrong Mr Watson. It's completely my business. "

"Yeah? Well I don't appreciate your meddling," John spat, spinning on his heel and making for the most obvious way out.

_What a prick, thinking he can kidnap me and lecture me about his git brother. This guy's never had a friend in his life, what the hell could he have to say about-_

"John."

John stopped, turning back towards Mycroft, the unexpected desperation in his voice compelling him.

"I'm worried about him."

Definitely unexpected. From what Sherlock had said and from what he'd witnessed himself , this was the exact opposite of what he expected from the man.

"Why?" John asked hurriedly, concern rising foolishly before he could cap it "What's he done now?"

"I don't know, I'm afraid you'll have to find out."

"Bullshit. You know your brother better than I do," John hissed

Mycroft just shrugged, the gesture foreign considering his form.

John just sighed, deflating when he realised he wasn't going to get more information. "Don't bother driving me back, I'll find my own way you pretentious git."

"Mr Watson. I require your assistance because- as much as it pains me to admit so- I cannot do this alone. I am concerned for my brother's well-being and I can't get through to make him see sense. Help me."

"No, I don't want anything to do with your family. You're all fucking toxic."

"We're getting nowhere," Mycroft sighed "Just agree to help."

"No."

"Mr Watson-"

"Don't 'Mr Watson' me you prick or I swear I'll-"

"John. Please."

"Fine!" John yelled, the two words finally smashing through his resolve "But this changes nothing. I still can't stand the sight of either of you."

"Splendid," Mycroft stated, clearly exasperated "I trust you'll let me know how it goes. I'll be expecting regular updates."

He took out his pocket watch again

"Now step into the car, your mother will be fretting over you and we don't need a search party."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally pushed them together! That definitely didn't take forever.   
> Also, I know these updates are very space anyway but I've got my GCSEs in about a month and a half so I've no idea when the next update will be. Apologies in advance but I'll hopefully be posting a chapter for this fics 1 year anniversary! Fingers crossed! Please leave kudos and comments, it makes my day! See you guys soon hopefully!


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am writing a lot of chapters right now!

“Jim Moriarty” the shadowy figure in the kitchen stated, obvious excitement barely concealed “Hi!”

The figure took a step forward into Sherlock’s space, holding out a pale hand. Sherlock didn’t move. The other was fairly shorter than he was, dark hair slicked carefully back, mouth stretched wide into an unnerving grin which was verging on maniacal. He appeared to match Sherlock somewhat in dress sense, draping himself in possibly one of the most expensive suits he’d ever seen. It occurred to Sherlock that they must have been standing in silence for longer than considered comfortable, but Jim hadn’t noticed. Or had just ignored it, hand still in the air between them, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. He really didn’t know what he’d expected when Irene had mentioned an interested party, but this was certainly not it.

“So? Are you going to tell me how I got in here? Or maybe even” he pulled a face in mock hurt… _was it hurt?_ “speak to me?”

Sherlock decided not to answer either, instead shrugging his coat off and ignoring his unexpected guest altogether. Jim gave a dramatic groan and tailed Sherlock as he pulled a case file from underneath a pile of mugs and continued to ignore him.

“That’s very rude of you Mr. Holmes. Won’t you even offer me a cup of tea? Or a chair?”

Sherlock continued to ignore him, not that he really knew what good it’d do. Maybe he’d get bored and leave. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Or… for god’s sake. He had no idea. He had no idea, and he hated it. He couldn’t read him and that was wrong. Just so sickeningly wrong. He glanced up to see Jim staring at him, still grinning maniacally, twiddling a test tube in his hands and eagerly awaiting a response.

“What do you want?” Sherlock deadpanned, refusing to play any part in whatever this was.

“He speaks!” Jim laughed, throwing the test tube unceremoniously over his shoulder, grin seemingly growing impossibly wider “And isn’t it obvious?”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock spat, tossing the unopened file away and hoping he didn’t detect the lie “But I want to hear it from you.”

He stood, taking a swift step towards Jim, crowding his space, hoping to intimidate him as it appeared the only way left to get him out of the flat. But Jim just shook his head slowly.

“Tell me yourself. You’re the genius people are blabbering about. Go on.”

He took a step back, smirking. He was infuriating. Beyond infuriating- and they only been conversing for about a minute and a half.

“You’re here because you find me interesting. You berated Irene for information on me. You wanted her to introduce-“

“Stop,” Jim snapped, eerily cheerful persona temporarily slipping, revealing something much darker which Sherlock could barely decipher before he snapped a grin back on “That’s just what Irene told you. Tell me yourself.”

Sherlock was silenced- not an easy feat by any means. He raked his eyes desperately over Jims snarky form, trying to find any shred of a personality or a past or just anything. Even something as trivial as the brand of hair product he used, but he was suddenly struck with horror as he realised he really had no idea who this person was. Beyond the slight Irish lilt in his accent he could find nothing of a past, nothing to indicate he had even existed before manifesting in Sherlock’s kitchen only minutes before, as if he had simply crawled from the shadows. A vague sense of alarm began to crawl up Sherlock’s throat at the thought, however illogical it was. There was not a single stain on his clothing, no stray hairs, no particular way he held himself. Jim just stood there. He was just standing in the middle of the flat, continuing to grin, head cocked slightly to the left as he monitored Sherlock’s rapidly climbing sense of hopelessness. Again, the silence seemed to drag on into years before Jim finally gave a dramatic sigh, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small slip of paper. He took a step closer, hand outstretched as he carefully slid the slip of paper into Sherlock’s jacket pocket. He smirked as he caught Sherlock’s eye and, god, he wished John was here. He had no doubt he would have given this prick a bloody nose by now. But as the thought occurred, he immediately banished it. Jim seemed to emit an aura of hurt, or danger, or barely contained rage. Possibly all three. That made taking a swing at him seem like a poor idea.

Jim was still standing uncomfortably close, having stayed where he was and Sherlock was having to fight against every impulse in his body to move away because, somehow that would mean he’d backed down from this rather insane encounter, and he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t seem weak.

“Do you want to know why I’m here?” Jim drawled, barely a whisper, standing so close that Sherlock could feel his breath on his neck. He steeled himself, willing himself to stay put. At Sherlock’s prolonged silence- which had appeared far too frequently that evening- he could feel the air move as Jim’s face surely pulled into another smirk.

“Because I’m bored,” he finally took a step away, smirk still firmly plastered onto his face “And you are the perfect distraction.”

With that, he gave a cheery wave and swung himself through the door. Only a few seconds later, when Sherlock finally heard the careful footsteps leave the building, the front door clicking quietly closed, did he let out a shuddering breath. Reaching into his pocket with trembling hands he reached into his pocket and unfolded the piece of paper. As expected, it had what must have been a phone number delicately etched onto the surface. Sherlock dropped it as if it was aflame. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, drawing in ragged breaths and glancing about the flat hurriedly, not quite sure what he was expecting to find. His eyes fell on the forgotten takeaway he’d left on the coffee table upon entering. He didn’t feel like eating anymore. He didn’t even want to be in the flat. It was the first time he’d felt out-of-place in 221B, as if Jim had contaminated the place, left a malevolent presence lurking just outside his field of vision. _This isn’t right. Calm…calm down. It’s nothing. That was nothing. Just a random teenager who broke into your flat who you don’t know a thing about and who threaten- no, he didn’t threaten you. He didn’t threaten you and you’re acting like this. Pathetic._

Except, there really was something else, something not quite right about Jim- _no, no, that’s not at all threatening sounding. Moriarty. Moriarty sounds better_ \- there was just an overwhelming sense of the unknown. As if you wouldn’t know until that vital last second if he was going to pat your shoulder or snap your neck. The sudden sound of the door opening downstairs and a loud rustling signalled Mrs Hudson’s return and snapped him back from his grotesque musings. He heard her huff and drop what was probably the shopping bags at the bottom of the stairs.

“Sherlock dear, are you in?” she chimed, a familiar and comforting presence.

He gave a noncommittal sound of conformation in response which was closely followed by a pleading request to help unpack the shopping. Sherlock had an excuse ready to shout back before it occurred to him that maybe such a mind-numbingly dull exercise would be a decent distraction.

As he left the flat he caught sight of his phone lying motionless on the coffee table. Before he could stop the thought from crossing his mind, he had the overwhelming urge to relay the event to John. That would have been his first thought upon seeing Moriarty standing in his kitchen had it been a month ago. To get John involved. It seemed like so long since John had been in the flat, either passed out from lack of sleep over a case file or bustling about making tea or just standing around and discussing meaningless, trivial events of his day which Sherlock could never quite bring himself to delete. The flat suddenly felt too big, too empty around him so he hurriedly pushed the thought from his mind and finally responded Mrs Hudson’s loud musings about which washing detergent was the most effective before heading downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry I was gone for so long! I was gone for a really really long time. I was right though- I had a lot of revision and had no time outside of my exams and then I've had a bunch of open days and this is just me making excuses and I am so sorry. Really I am. But I have actually got the next 4 chapters in the works! So the wait shouldn't be too long. I say that a lot. I really enjoyed writing Moriarty because I haven't written him yet in anything, and he's interesting. Wonderful mix of enthusiastic and terrifying. See you soon!


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johns POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter beta: gallifreyan-halliwell

John stood in front of the battered front door of what was now his home, clutching his final box of belongings and waiting for Mike. Mary had called to say he was supposed to be in that morning sorting out the electric bill or something equally domestic so it had been a surprise when the door had been locked. John sighed and slouched against the door, placing the box on the doormat and taking out his phone to call Mike. He’d only met the guy a few times but he seemed friendly enough and he didn’t think he’d mind sharing a flat with the guy.

After no one picked up the phone for the third time he tried calling Mary but was again met with nothing. He checked the time and saw that it was already 9:30. He’d been standing there for the better part of an hour and fretting wasn’t exactly going to get Mike there any sooner. He placed the box carefully on the metal grate he was standing on and crouched down to sit on the doormat. There wasn’t much of a view from there, only an empty alleyway full of overflowing dustbins below him and a brick wall opposite. The flat was above a shabby pharmacy located on an even shabbier row of shops and it wouldn’t have been his first choice had there been even one other landlord willing to take them. Apparently nobody in the area was fond of the idea of renting to a trio of teenagers. Their landlord had been wary at first but he’d been having trouble renting the place out because it was ‘too cramped’. John could easily see what he meant. If he wanted to he could easily lean out over the handrail and touch the opposite wall. The entire place was repulsive. Suddenly John’s phone buzzed into life with an incoming call and he instantly answered.

“Mike? Where the hell are you? I’ve been out here almost an hour and it’s disgusting.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Mike? Mate, where are you?” John sighed

“John, never shorten my name again. It’s infuriating and unnecessary,” came the incredibly curt response.

John was thrown into stunned silence for a few seconds before managing to spit back a response.

“Mycroft? Why are you calling me?”

“I was-“

“And how the fuck did you get my number?!”

He heard Mycroft sigh heavily into the phone. John was pretty sure there would be an exaggerated eye roll to go with it.

“John, what is the point in asking if you won’t give me the time to answer?”

“Fine, go ahead.”

“I was calling to enquire about how much progress has been made with Sherlock, it has been-“

John could barely hold back a groan as he was reminded of their conversation. During the frantic moving process he’d almost completely forgotten. Mycroft, seemingly unfazed at John’s interruption, just continued.

“- almost a week since our chat. You really should have been in contact by now.”

“With you or Sherlock? Because I don’t have time for either of you at the moment.”

“You forgot.”

John could still identify the condescending tone over the crackling line and had to resist the overwhelming urge to hang up.

“I’m kind of busy at the moment so yeah, I forgot.”

“For goodness sake John, this is incredibly important.”

“So you keep saying,” John hissed.

“John-“

“Bye Mycroft.”

John hung up and hurriedly tried to phone Mary again before he let Mycroft’s words sink in. Again, however, there was no response. There was however a text waiting.

“Bloody Holmes’, never giving me a moments peace,” John muttered to himself, completely ignoring the text and putting his phone in his pocket.

Received 9:45 

**John. Don’t hang up on me in future and listen.**

**MH**

Over the next twenty minutes he counted almost forty text alerts. Despite his annoyance at Mycroft, it was almost funny to imagine him sitting in his ridiculous suit, probably in some massive country home, and texting a stubborn teenager for almost twenty straight minutes. Almost funny, but by the twenty-eighth buzz John finally relented. He wasn’t disappointed by the stream of messages.

Received 9:47 

**John, listen to me. You have to talk to Sherlock.**

**MH**

Received 9:52 

**John. Answer me this instant.**

**MH**

Received 9:55 

I **f you do not answer within the next 10 minutes I will send a car to collect you.**

**MH**

Received 10:00 

**I am completely serious John. I will send a car.**

**MH**

Received 10:04 

**I’ve sent a car.**

**MH**

John snorted before sending a text back.

**And I thought Sherlock was needy.**

The reply was almost instantaneous.

Received 10:05 

**I’m going to phone you again. This is too important to relay over text.**

**MH**

John answered on the first ring.

“What could possibly be so important that it couldn’t be typed out?” he asked.

“I haven’t heard from Sherlock since the day of our meeting. He isn’t in his flat and has ignored my attempts to contact him.”

 _Oh. Oh shit._ John swallowed back his mounting panic and tried to keep his voice steady as he answered. This had to be a lie.

“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?!” John spluttered.

“Because I wasn’t quite expecting you to hang up as soon as you did,” Mycroft replied.

John took a deep breath and allowed this to process for a few seconds.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m being completely serious John. I can’t find him.”

John still found this incredibly hard to believe.

“But he-he mentioned once that you have access to pretty much every security camera in London. If you can’t find him with that then what the hell are you expecting me to do?”

“He’ll let you find him. He likes you.”

“Sure,” John scoffed, albeit half-heartedly “He’ll let me find him after he’s managed to hide from **you** for a week.”

“Just call him.”

Then the line went dead as Mycroft hung up. _Unbelievable_. John had just decided he’d do it when he’d sorted out the situation with Mike when his phone buzzed again.

“And call him as soon as possible.”

And then he hung up again. This was getting ridiculous- _oh for god’s sake not again._

“What?” John sighed.

“It would be best if you did it immediately.”

“No, Mycroft-“

The line went dead again. John rubbed a weary hand over his eyes and checked the time. It was almost 10:30 and it didn’t look like Mike would be turning up any time soon. Standing up, he stretched and picked up the box, making his way down the stairs so he could go back to the train station. He wasn’t going to wait there all day and he still had just under a month to sort everything out.

Just as he was entering the train station however, his phone buzzed again. _For fucks sake, that’s enough_. Without even checking the caller, John aggressively jabbed the answer button and didn’t hesitate before shouting into the phone.

“Oh for fucks sake Mycroft, I’ll talk to him but if you call me again I swear I’ll shove that umbrella so far- oh shit, hi Mary!”

-

About two hours later John was sitting on the counter in his kitchen, mug of tea in hand and phone placed in the middle of the kitchen table. Mike’s train had broken down so they’d decided to sort out the flat another time, but all thoughts of the flat had long since been replaced by worry. Sure, he was angry at Sherlock. He’d never been so angry at the prick but if what Mycroft had said was true… then he didn’t want to just leave him be. They could sort it out, like they usually did. So what if he had to make the first move, as usual? Sherlock was hardly going to apologise on his own which was, again, completely expected. Maybe this time they’d even stop arguing, like they always had. They really were just going around in circles and he was sick of it. If Sherlock was willing to apologise this time he would just grit his teeth and accept the fact that they argued a lot, that they had a hell of a lot of conflicting opinions and that their friendship was far from ideal, but that everything was bloody boring without it and if he could sort this out he wasn’t letting go. Before he could go back on himself, John snatched up his phone and hurriedly dialled the familiar number. He’d expected to be waiting a while for Sherlock to pick up so was amazed when it didn’t even reach the first ring.

“Hi Sher-“

“John, as much as I appreciate you calling me I’m not really in a good position to talk right now,” Sherlock whispered down the line. “I can call you back in exactly 19 minutes from now.” “

What- Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked

“I’m fine, but I really need to go-“ Sherlock replied before several loud bangs cut him off, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

“Sherlock, was that gunfire?” John hissed, hoping he’d answer.

“Yes,” he immediately whispered more quietly. “But I should be alright. I usually am. Goodbye John.”

And he immediately hung up. _Well, he couldn’t possibly have chosen a more Sherlock way to crash back in_. He ignored the rising concern as he usually did when Sherlock did something stupid and found the feeling strangely welcome. It was familiar and, as Sherlock had assured him, he was usually alright and it suddenly occurred to him that he’d really missed Sherlock’s misplaced stupidity. For someone with such vast knowledge he really could be remarkably dense. There was still, however, the underlying sense of dread that something horrific would happen, and that definitely had not been missed. John decided to get a fresh mug of tea while he waited, hoping that nothing would happen before they’d had the chance to apologise.

-

An hour later and John was finding it remarkably difficult to remain calm. He was on his eighth mug of panic tea and was pacing restlessly about the kitchen, raking his shaking fingers through his hair. He’d tried to call Sherlock exactly twenty-four times since he’d realised it had been over nineteen minutes but had only gotten through to voicemail. _What if he’s dead? He could be bleeding out in some alleyway and I wouldn’t know, oh fuck, he’s going to die, oh shit_ \- the sound of the door unlocking cut through his blind panic. His parents were at work, so who the hell-

“John, I’m home!” Harry suddenly yelled, walking into the kitchen with a wide smile. “I haven’t seen you in ages! How’s it going?”

John stopped pacing and placed his mug down slightly too shakily.

“Yeah, hi Harry,” he mumbled, before collapsing into a chair, head in hands, all adrenaline suddenly drained.

“John? Are you alright?” Harry asked, taking the chair next to him. “You look like shit, what’s happened?”

John took a deep breath, composing himself as much as he could. This is ridiculous, calm down, he’s fine. He’ll be fine.

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

Harry nudged his shoulder harshly. She clearly knew he was lying.

“I think something’s happened to Sherlock,” he sighed.

Harry looked taken-aback.

“Well there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while!” she joked. “But what could possibly have happened that’s worse than usual? You said yourself a while back that he’s constantly out getting his head kicked in.”

“I know but-“

“No John. Don’t worry about him, I’m sure he’s fine,” she replied stubbornly.

John didn’t reply. He already knew he was being stupid but Harry had succeeded in calming him down. Slightly.

They both sat for a while, Harry updating John on her and Clara’s relationship and their various pub crawls- ‘John, you should have seen us, got completely smashed and woke up handcuffed to a lamppost!’- As well as recounting the odd argument they'd had about whether to buy a cat or not. John just listened half-heartedly, supplying the occasional comment or laughing at the appropriate times, but he really didn’t care about anything but finding Sherlock. He’d phoned Mrs Hudson at some point during the barrage of calls he’d given Sherlock but she hadn’t seen him and didn’t know where he’d gone and he didn’t know who else to ask, so he just sat and listened to Harry ramble on obliviously.

Halfway through an incredibly vivid description of a fight she’d gotten into at a bus station, John’s phone began to ring. Before Harry could even tell what was happening, John snatched up his phone.

“Molly?”

“John! Oh god, John, hi! Um, this isn’t good, I just needed to-“ Molly stammered before there was a rustle and she pleaded in a more muffled voice. “No don’t sit there! Please, just go into the kitchen and I’ll be there in a minute! Oh god-”

“What the hell’s happened? You’re going a mile a minute, are you alright?” John interjected, already moving to slip on his jacket. Something was definitely wrong here.

“Sherlock’s here, he asked me to call you, says his phone’s smashed- Sherlock, please just don’t get blood on the carpet, my mum will kill me-“

“What?!” John almost yelled, causing Harry to stand, stony-faced, and grab her car keys.

“Yeah, he just turned up on my doorstep and he’s such a mess but he won’t let me take him to A&E, would you be able to-“

“Sure, we’re on our way,” John interrupted before hanging up.

Harry had already unlocked the car and was getting in, shouting over that she’d give him a lift. At that point, John didn’t really pay thought to whether she was sober enough.

-

Molly had barely opened the door before John pushed past her into the hallway. Molly dragged him through to the kitchen, babbling away about how she hadn’t really expected to be dealing with this, well, ever, and how Sherlock even had her address, but John was preoccupied with assessing the scene in the kitchen.

Sherlock was slumped in one of the chairs, looking paler than when John had last seen him and with a floral tea-towel clamped firmly over his right shoulder, blood soaking through the garish pattern and threatening to soak further into his already bloodied shirt sleeve. He was sitting completely still, eyes glazed over and shoulder set so he clearly wasn't in the room with them other than physically.

"He hasn't said much," Molly muttered "Just asked me to call you and then plonked himself down. I had to force that tea-towel on him- bleeding all over my house."

John could barely contain his sigh of relief. _At least he doesn't look too damaged_.

"So he didn't say what happened?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Not a word, but I couldn't just leave him on my doorstep could I?"

John took a few tentative steps forward, waving a hand in front of Sherlock’s eyes. Immediately his eyes snapped back into focus, found John’s and he blinked rapidly before responding.

"John, I know you can disagree how I use my powers of observation, but I never intended to use that against you for my own purposes. You were angry and it was my first defence and I stupidly never considered your reaction. I didn't mean to push you away and regret doing so but would greatly appreciate if you considered moving past this. Will you please consider forgiving me?"

John knew he was staring blankly but he didn't care. Sherlock had actually, in his own bizarre way, just made an apology. An incredibly thorough and apparently genuine apology. John glanced to Molly who was mirroring his wide-eyed stare but Sherlock was still staring at John and awaiting a response. Judging by his weary expression he clearly wasn't expecting to be forgiven in the slightest.

"Did- did you rehearse that?" John breathed.

Sherlock didn't reply, eyes instead flitting away as he glanced around the room. _Christ, he rehearsed it_. It was easily the most genuine thing he'd ever done and it destroyed John’s last thread of resolve. It was near impossible for him to try and stay angry at the guy when he looked so miserable.

"Yes of course," John grinned "Of course I forgive you."

Sherlock beamed but hurriedly adopted his usual haughty expression.

"Good. The flat's become a horrible mess and I need you to help me clean it."

"Don't push your luck," John laughed back "And why don't you just ask Mrs Hudson?"

"She always cleans away my experiments," Sherlock grumbled "Last week she threw away all of my mould samples and tried to clean the fingers from the fridge."

"Well we can't have that can we?" John joked.

The two then dissolved into laughter, overjoyed to have the other back. John wondered, while trying to control his fit of giggles, why he ever bothered trying to hate him. However, they were suddenly interrupted by a loud sniff from the doorway. John glanced over and noticed Molly, slightly bleary-eyed, hands clamped over her mouth. They'd both forgotten she was even there.

"You two," she sniffed, moving her hands from her face "That was adorable."

John could feel his face heating up and Sherlock gave an uncomfortable cough from beside him before Molly hurriedly moved on.

"But you are still," she tapped her shoulder "kind of bleeding everywhere."

John, turning back to Sherlock, carefully peeled the towel away, slowing down when he noticed Sherlock wince. His shirt was torn and the strands of fabric were mixed with the blood, knotting together and making the wound near impossible to see properly.

"Right, I can't actually see this so you're going to have to..." John trailed off before he realised how ridiculous he was being "you're going to have to take your shirt off."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s hesitation but didn't question it as he unbuttoned his shirt. Molly, still hovering by the door, anxiously made an excuse to leave, saying she was going to fetch some clean towels. John could hardly blame her- he felt the overwhelming urge to avert his eyes. _It probably has something to do with the fact you've just asked Sherlock Holmes of all people- who you haven't seen in over a month- to strip in the middle of your friend’s kitchen, even if it is for a perfectly good reason._

Once Sherlock has awkwardly managed to peel away the shirt sleeve, John dabbed away as much of the blood as he could with a clean towel. A deep, jagged gash ran along his shoulder.

"Jesus Sherlock," he sighed, pressing the towel back "How did this even happen?"

"They were shooting at me so I jumped out a window," Sherlock deadpanned.

John hurriedly snatched the towel away, jolting Sherlock’s arm and causing him to wince violently.

"Watch it!" he snapped but John ignored him.

"Why didn't you say something?" John fretted "There could be glass in that!"

"You didn't give me the chance," Sherlock spat back before composing himself "and I checked- there isn't."

"There could be and that could cause permanent nerve damage," John replied as calmly as he could.

Sherlock didn't reply and John rubbed a hand over his eyes. Getting angry would accomplish nothing.

"Right," John sighed "Okay. That’s probably going to need proper stitches and I don't actually know how to do that. I'll have to take you to my parents."

"Your parents?" Sherlock asked hesitantly "Are you quite sure you couldn't do it?"

"Positive. I don't want to cause any more damage and they actually know what they're doing. I'd probably end up slicing your arm off."

Sherlock gave a small smirk before grimacing at a trickle of blood running down his arm, but didn't otherwise reply. However, his eyebrows did knit together as he seemed to consider it. John could hardly blame his hesitancy and placed a hand carefully on his uninjured shoulder.

"Don't worry, they've been dying to meet you and really know their stuff."

"You've been arguing with them lately so you're hardly in a position to ask for their help on my behalf. Surely they'll just turn me away?" Sherlock asked

"They won't leave you like this just because I'm being an ass. They aren't shitty people."

Sherlock seemed to steel himself before nodding and shrugging off John’s hand, standing and wrapping his tattered shirt loosely around his shoulder. He then turned to Molly who'd been hovering silently in the doorway again.

"Thank you for letting me in Molly, I appreciate the help," he paused to place a hand gently on her shoulder "and I’m sorry for bleeding all over your kitchen, but that disgusting tea towel deserved to be ruined."

He then shrugged his coat on with some difficulty from where it had been hanging on the back of his chair and swept through the door as best he could. They both remained in the kitchen as they heard the front door click closed.

"Um," she muttered "could you tell him that it was no problem? I guess?"

"Sure," John nodded "and really, thank you. For looking out for him and calling me."

Molly grinned.

"Anything for a friend. Talk soon?"

"Talk soon, yeah," John confirmed before hurrying to meet up with Sherlock before he could insult Harry too much.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

Stepping out of the car after the short journey and pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders, Sherlock finally laid eyes on the Watson house. It stood identical to the other terraced houses surrounding it, with its uneven roof tiles and tired walls, but it was still just so… John. The few scraggly plants breaking up through the otherwise concrete front garden were well cared for whereas the other gardens had nothing to present but a patchwork of weeds and broken glass. The front door and windows were free of the moss invading the frames of its neighbours and the dim light pouring from the downstairs windows was warm and welcoming. All of this spoke to him of a proper home, and one which he had never experienced before at that. It drew a stark and alarming contrast to his old home, with its tall, gaping windows and the cold iron fences, protecting the immaculate front from the barbarity of the outside world. He already preferred this house without even having to step through the door.

John had already opened the gate and was fumbling around in his pockets for the keys so Sherlock sidestepped Harry, who was muttering to herself about rude guests for some reason, and joined him on the front step. After John had finally managed to unlock the door, he carefully pushed it open with a quiet creak and ushered him into the dark hall. Sherlock quickly glanced around, taking in the faded wallpaper and neat rows of worn shoes before John turned to him.

“I should warn you,” he whispered hurriedly “She can be incredibly chatty.”

Before he could respond there was the sudden yet unmistakable sound of shuffling feet from behind the door closest to them as it was slammed open, flooding the hall with light and making them both jump.

“John!” a woman shouted “Where the hell have you been? You were only supposed to be gone a few hours-“

As she stepped into the hall however, she fell silent when her eyes fell on him. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Sherlock watching her as she tried to puzzle through her confusion, utter bewilderment crossing her face before she turned to John.

“Who’s this?” she asked, unsuccessfully trying to paint over her previous anger.

John blinked a few times in shock and then sent him an apologetic glance, replying.

“Mum, this is Sherlock. I’ve mentioned him a couple times be-“

Mrs Watson ignored the rest of the sentence, a bright smile which threatened to overpower the light from the front room wiping away her anger as she took a step closer, practically bubbling in excitement.

“So you’re Sherlock?” she asked “It’s wonderful to finally meet you dear, John hardly ever shuts up about you!”

_Been a nurse 28 years, has been warned about being sacked, most likely due to funding as experience clearly isn’t a problem, was a secret smoker, clothing is two, no, three years old so can’t afford to waste money on herself so she must have quit smoking because she couldn’t afford it. The house looks well-kept regardless so clearly trying to keep up appearances to disguise money troubles._

“There’s a lot to talk about,” he grinned, disguising his surveying “And it’s a pleasure to meet you as well Mrs Watson.”

Her smile seemed to grow impossibly brighter as she motioned for them to follow her through into the cramped kitchen. John ushered him over to the table and pushed him into a chair, clearly exasperated, and then addressed his mother.

“Sherlock needs-“

“So,” Mrs Watson interrupted, turning to face Sherlock again and completely ignoring her son “What’s brought you here today of all days? You’ve been welcome for months!”

He could see John trying to keep calm, taking a deep breath as he tried again to catch her attention.

“Mum. This is important,” he breathed, nodding for Sherlock to remove his coat.

Mrs Watson’s eyes widened when she saw the tattered shirt wrapped loosely over his shoulder and she took a step forward, hand outstretched as if to remove it. Sherlock pushed himself back in his chair until the coarse plastic pressed painfully into his exposed skin, unwillingly flinching away from her touch. She stopped and withdrew her hand, head cocked slightly as she clearly tried to grasp at some comforting- _and probably empty_ \- words.

“Don’t worry dear, I’ll be careful,” she said softly before again moving to remove the makeshift bandage.

Sherlock steeled himself, willing himself to not wince at the foreign touch as she peeled away the fabric and placed it on the table. She let out a slight breath in apparent shock. The bleeding had slowed to almost non-existence since it had happened a few hours ago but the fact it was even still bleeding had alerted him to the severity. That was one of the reasons he’d forced himself to get to Molly’s as quickly as possible, as well as the fact she could contact John.

“How’d this happen?” Mrs Watson asked, glancing between the two.

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her the truth- that he’d thrown himself through a window to avoid a bullet in the head- but John cut him off.

“He dropped a mirror,” John told her “He was helping Molly put one up and it fell.”

 _Oh right, John won’t have told her about the more dangerous cases. Or the murderers._ Sherlock nodded hurriedly in agreement.

“John suggested it’d need stitches,” he added “and he assured me that you were more than qualified enough to help.”

Mrs Watson nodded, muttering something about staples as she bustled out of the kitchen.

“A mirror?” Sherlock scoffed once he was certain she was out of earshot.

“You try coming up with a convincing lie on the spot like that,” John retaliated “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“Yeah, but a mirror? Really?”

“Shut up,” John laughed, giving him a light shove.

“Seven years bad luck.”

John grinned before replying lightly

“Lucky it was a lie then. You’ve already got enough bad luck for the both of us.”

-

“Almost done,” Mrs Watson assured “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Sherlock had to restrain himself from snorting as John spared him a warning glance. That’s exactly what she’d said the first time and that had been near excruciating despite her assurances. The stitches hadn’t been able to hold very well so she’d been forced to move to a more serious line of action. He gritted his teeth at the last staple, pretending it was fine so as not to alarm John. When he’d winced at the first one he’d almost had to fend off a one armed hug- apparently John’s automatic response to seeing someone he cared about in pain. Not that he’d ever tried it on Sherlock before. He briefly recalled a conversation they’d had on boundaries after they’d been forced to hide in the same small cupboard during a case for five hours, but couldn’t remember who’d actually initiated it. _Not that it really matters much at the moment._

A sudden sharp sting jolted him back to the dimly lit kitchen, now reeking of antiseptic.

“There we go,” Mrs Watson chimed “I’ll be able to remove those in about 10 days so make sure to drop by.”

She snapped shut the abnormally large first aid box and hauled it off the table.

“I’ll leave you two to it then.”

Sherlock hesitantly rolled his shoulder, ignoring the slight twinge of his skin, the neat line of staples inhibiting his movement. He then stood, stretching before turning to her.

“I really appreciate it Mrs Watson,” he smiled “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

She beamed up at him, saying it really was no problem, before she left the kitchen with a smile. Quiet laughter suddenly bubbled up from beside him and he turned to John in confusion.

“What?”

John also stood from his chair, still giggling at Sherlock’s apparent obliviousness.

“I’ve never seen you so polite,” he finally managed “You really turned on the charm there mate.”

Sherlock grimaced, causing John to snort with laughter.

“Did it work?”

“Definitely,” John checked his watch “Right, it’s almost eight and I’m starving.”

He shuffled carefully around the table, wary of bumping into the counters, and checked the cupboards. Sherlock noticed his shoulders sink as only a few tins of beans, half a bag of rice and a box of teabags was revealed. He slammed the doors shut and instead opened the fridge. Sherlock couldn’t see inside but by John’s frown it was clearly as fruitful as the cupboards had been.

“Ok, I can’t afford a takeaway so it’s either beans or cheese on toast,” he snapped the fridge closed “Which d’you want?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“When did you last eat?”

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Wednesday evening.”

“Then yes you are,” John stated “So cheese or beans?”

Sherlock groaned, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. _John can be so infuriatingly persistent._

“Cheese,” he relented “It’s worth a try.”

John paused from where he was taking a tired looking loaf of bread from the breadbin and turned to gawp at him as if he’d just admitted to last week’s triple murder. _Oh great, here we go._

“You’ve never had cheese on toast?” he asked in disbelief.

“Apparently not,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“You haven’t lived,” John replied, putting a few slices of bread in the toaster before pausing again “and aren’t you cold?”

Sherlock hummed in confusion so John loosely gestured back at him. _Oh._ He was suddenly alerted to the chilly house as he remembered this was the second kitchen he’d been shirtless in that afternoon. He hadn’t been able to reapply his shirt as Mrs Watson had binned it and John had already taken his coat somewhere.

“You can just go and grab something from my room,” John continued “First door at the top of the stairs.”

Sherlock complied, leaving John to wrestle with the cheese grater as he went back into the hall. 

-

Tugging down on the jumper he’d chosen, he re-entered the kitchen where John was plating up their food. He hadn’t really been spoiled for choice in clothing so had just gone for what wasn’t far too small- a very warm, stripy jumper that only just came down to his hips. John didn’t appear to have noticed him so Sherlock stepped closer.

“Do I need to help with anything?”

John startled, but just shook his head and picked up the plate of toast.

“Its fine, I got it-“

John glanced up and abruptly stopped, fumbling with the plate, eyes wide. Sherlock hurriedly snatched the plate from him before it was dropped. He placed it back on the table, raising an eyebrow at John who’d gone bright red, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. _He only does that when he’s panicking, but why would I have caused him to panic?_

“John?”

“Let’s watch a film! Have you seen ‘The Birds’? It’s shit but in a good way,” John spluttered, grabbing the plate and walking into the living room.

Sherlock followed, listening carefully as John obliviously rambled on about the film, and entered as Mrs Watson was standing to leave. John was trying to act calm, and failing miserably, as he searched through a pile of DVDs. Mrs Watson seemed alarmed at her son’s behaviour but ignored him.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” she asked.

“Much better thank you,” he muttered, distractedly watching John.

Mrs Watson noticed and smiled, features soft, as if she knew something they didn’t.

“The jumper suits you dear,” she complimented, a loud snap of a DVD sounding behind her closely followed by hurried cursing.

Mrs Watson then made some half-hearted excuse and left as John was setting up the film. He still seemed jittery, fumbling with the remote and struggling to actually put the DVD in the player without almost breaking it in two.

“John, are you-“

“I’m fine,” he turned around with a tight grin “I’m fine. Really. Now eat your bloody toast.”

-

The finale of the film was the last straw for both of them. John was in stitches, half buried beneath a mountain of duvets he’d bought down, laughing uncontrollably at both the film and Sherlock’s irritated screeching of insults rivalling that of the birds on screen. Sherlock was standing, waving a piece of toast angrily as he insulted every scene, from the plot to the questionable effects. He didn’t really care if John was laughing. The film deserved it.

“Just open the door you stupid woman!” Sherlock yelled “Open the bloody door and run, they’re just plastic birds! **They can’t do anything**!”

John struggled to catch his breath, clutching a duvet to his face, all previous awkwardness gone.

“Sherlock, oh my god, Sher-“

“Oh brilliant! Now you’re dead, which could have been avoided-“

Sherlock felt a hand on his arm as he was dragged backwards onto the sofa, being plonked down next to John, still fuming as John tried to suppress his giggling. Sherlock took an aggressive bite of toast and continued glaring at the film as the protagonist was rescued.

“It’s classic horror, it’s not supposed to be good,” John laughed “And mind your arm, you’ll lose it if you keep flinging it about like that.”

Sherlock grumbled an insult through his mouthful of toast but sat in silence for the last few minutes, holding back the scathing remarks about lack of background music because John was clearly enjoying it. He was almost hanging off the edge of the sofa, hair sticking up every which way from his battle with the duvet, grinning ridiculously at the screen as the dull blues and greens emanating from it painted his face. If he really wanted to, Sherlock could just reach out and run a hand through his hair. Just to smooth it down of course- _no, that’s ridiculous. Don’t do that. John wouldn’t approve._

Just as Sherlock reached this conclusion the screen faded to black and John leant back, yawning.

"Tea?" He asked, standing up with Sherlock stumbling after him into the kitchen with a quiet agreement.

John groggily put the kettle on and reached for the teabags, a shelf too high, causing his frayed T-shirt to hitch up slightly and expose a thin strip of lower back. Sherlock hurriedly glanced away as John turned back to face him.

"Why haven't you been in the flat?"

This caught him off-guard but John was clearly set on getting an answer.

"I don't understand," he replied "What flat?"

"Your flat!" John said, exasperated.

"Who says I haven't?"

"Your bloody brother. Said you haven't been there in over a week.”

Sherlock grimaced.

"Mycroft? And you believed him? Really John, I thought you were better."

John looked to be battling against his better judgement in order to believe him, grimacing and eyebrows furrowed. Mycroft had clearly been incredibly convincing.

Sherlock rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. Mycroft always had to intervene.

"Ask Mrs Hudson during your next shift about it but Mycroft was lying. It was probably an attempt to get us talking sooner."

John gave small nod before pouring the tea and nudging back past and going into the living room again, dragging Sherlock with him.

"We have soooo much catching up to do," John stated through a mouthful of cold toast. "I hope you're not tired."

-

The pillow John had just thrown hit Sherlock square in the chest, causing him to overbalance and topple onto the pile of duvets on the floor. John snorted and nudged him with his foot, accidently poking him in the face in the darkness.

“I am definitely not in love with Mary,” he whispered “She’s just a- a mate. Yeah.”

“But all the signs are there,” Sherlock groaned “Your pupils dilate when she’s around, you stutter a lot, you ignore everything and everyone but her-“

He heard John reach for another pillow so quickly grabbed his ankle and yanked him onto the floor next to him which was closely followed by a quiet tidal wave of curses which retreated surprisingly quickly. John feebly elbowed him in further retaliation before yawning.

They’d spent the past two hours exchanging stories, Johns mundane and quite dull, Sherlock less so. He’d carefully left out the more reckless events and the visit from Moriarty so as not to worry him and John had clearly cut his stories down too but neither of them really cared. When the conversation had inevitably rolled around to gossiping Sherlock had been silently taking notes as John rambled. Apparently Anderson had visited Speedys with Sally and they’d been incredibly ‘intimate’ -as John had put it- but it ended abruptly when John had accidently tripped and dunked a cake down the front of his shirt (“It was an accident I swear. Well. Not that he didn’t deserve it but- Sherlock, don’t laugh! He almost clobbered me!”). Greg had also drunk-dialled him one night crying because he was homesick but had suddenly started blabbering on about whether pies had feelings. Sherlock had really missed the familiarity of this but was somewhat glad he hadn’t been present for either instances.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock suddenly snapped wide awake.

“What?”

John sighed, shuffling to face him from where he was lying.

“I’m really sorry. About what I said when we fell out.”

Sherlock wracked his brain for the conversation but couldn’t recall exactly what had been said. He’d deleted it recently after it had been painful to recall.

“I don’t remember but all’s forgiven-“

“No,” John interrupted “I was an ass, calling you a show-off and going on about- about how you never show any remorse. I was wrong, really really wrong, and I’m sorry.”

 _Oh_. The entire conversation came crashing back, word for disgusting word, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Of course, John was forgiven as John had forgiven him.

“I’m sorry you have to move. I wasn’t going to laugh.”

“I know, I know,” John muttered “I was just angry at the fucking world I think.”

“Will you be visiting London often?”

“I- I think so. This won’t change anything, we’ll still meet up. Just not as often.”

John took in a shaking breath and they lay in silence for a few minutes, mulling over the new life they’d be forced to lead in only a week.

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” John finally said into the darkness.

“It’s fine John.”

John sniffed and carefully reached across, and Sherlock froze as he gently ruffled his hair, warm and comforting before he withdrew.

“Thank you,” John mumbled back.

Sherlock hummed, unable to force an answer, worried at what he might say as John yawned obliviously and pulled a duvet over himself.

“Night Sherlock.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry I haven't updated in well over a month but I've made it a goal to update at least once a month from now on. I'll actually try to still to this one because otherwise I'll just get too bogged down with work and never update. Also, I'm going back over the earlier chapters (like the first 30 chapters at least) and correcting them because when I read back over them recently I was just in constant pain. So yeah, I'll try and update once a month and I might make a Halloween chapter clash with the real Halloween if I hurry up. Things are really starting to happen now and I actually can't wait to get all these chapters down and tie up some loose ends :D Thanks for reading!


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John POV

John hastily swept his alarm clock from the bedside table, silencing it when it thunked to the floor. He grabbed the jumper he’d discarded and shrugged it on to try and ward off the cold draft cutting through the flat. Mike was still snoring steadily from where he was sleeping by the opposite wall and John just decided to wake him in a bit as he padded from their room. The lights were already on in the kitchen, illuminating the mould-ridden walls and grubby window. Mary was perched on the counter as he entered, dressed in a bulky jumper and clutching a steaming mug. She gave him a tired wave accompanied by a yawn and motioned to the other two mugs on the counter. John took one and began to make a pile of toast for them when Mike decided to get up.

This was only their third morning together in the flat and the novelty had quickly worn off, leaving them as weary as the walls surrounding them. It was exactly as he’d feared: cold, cramped and dirty, but there was precious little they could do about it now they were all starting college. There just wouldn’t be time.

“Nervous huh?” Mary asked, smirking when John groaned in response “Yeah, me too.” 

“We’ll be fine guys,” Mike suddenly piped up as he shuffled into the kitchen “Everyone's going to be in the same boat. We just have to stick together and we’ll be fine.”

John didn’t respond, instead placing a mountain of toast on the table and gingerly taking a piece, his raging nerves diminishing his appetite. Mary and Mike somehow managed to eat all the toast between them in only a few minutes as John checked his phone. Good luck texts from his parents, Harry and Molly, a reminder not to make a fool of himself from Greg and, unsurprisingly, a list of different chemicals to steal with a feeble good luck from Sherlock. John gave a small smile despite himself and went to get ready.

-

Biology was horrible. The professor had been talking about chloroplasts for the past hour without pausing for breath- _how is he not dead yet_ \- and the girl he was sitting by had just been frantically writing down every single word at an alarming speed. She’d joyously introduced herself as Kitty and then not said another word as her obsessive note-taking had taken over. John was itching to talk to Mike but he’d been seated on the other side of the room. He was next to a giant of a boy and John didn’t really want to accidently incur his wrath if he disrupted his teaching. Mike looked terrified and had pressed himself as far into the wall as he could without breaking his glasses and John was torn between laughing and making an excuse to get him moved. Doing neither, he discreetly took out his phone.

Kitty keeps elbowing me, this professor’s ridiculous and I’m dying of boredom. How’re you? 

He glanced up to check the professor hadn’t noticed- he had now moved on to talking about chlorophyll and was drawing a diagram- but Kitty had noticed, glaring at him over her notes, mumbling angrily.

**Bored.**

What about the decapitation case?

**It was some absurd accident so I wasn’t actually needed.**

Sorry mate. Shame there isn’t some brutal murderer running round decapitating people all over the place

**No need for the sarcasm. Who’s Kitty?**

Girl in my class taking notes stupidly quickly. I don’t know whether I should be impressed or terrified

“You should definitely be impressed Mr Watson as she is taking significantly more notes than you.”

John spun around in shock as the professor stood at his shoulder, glaring at him after the scathing remark. He could feel the eyes of the entire class on his back and could have sworn he heard Kitty snigger as he felt himself go bright red. He put his phone away and immediately turned back to his desk.

“Yes sir, sorry.”

With that the professor sniffed and went back to the front of the class where he continued his rambling about plants. John glanced over to Mike who gave him a pitying look and turned away before the lesson dully continued.

-

It was a relief to finally flop down onto the sofa in their flat. The day hadn’t gotten any worse- _which would’ve been difficult to do anyway_ \- but hadn’t exactly gotten any better either. He’d been rushed off his feet, desperately trying not to get lost or be late or forget names or look like an idiot or lose anything or fall asleep, and now he was exhausted. It hadn’t been the best taster of what the next two years would be like and it clearly wasn’t going to be great. Mary and Mike had gone on a food run to try and cheer everyone up but John hadn’t had the energy to move so they’d gone without him but with the promise of ice cream.

The flat was even worse on his own as there wasn’t even the bustle of another living thing, just the crushing silence that came with being alone, the furniture cramped into every available corner crowding his space. It was getting harder and harder to imagine the place being his home when he kept coming up with reasons to hate it. It was clearly going to be a problem, but unlikely to be one he’d ever address.

Taking a long sip of tea, John opened his laptop with the intention of getting a head start on homework to make himself feel better but suddenly remembered he hadn’t checked his phone since the… incident. He instead decided to see if Sherlock had caught on or whether he’d continued rambling: there were surprisingly only six unread messages.

**Neither. She’s probably going to get arthritis in a few years so there’s no use being impressed and being terrified is pointless.**

**Unless she lets go of the pen and it hits you in the face. T**

**he probability of that happening is very low though.**

**John?**

**Oh, you’ve been caught. I hope you aren’t punished.**

**It was probably Kitty’s fault. Burn her notes.**

John smirked and he went back to essay writing before the other two came back.

-

Mike was hanging from every word as the shitty film he’d chosen played dully from John’s battered laptop, full of cliché love declarations and betrayal, the ice cream he’d bought long forgotten. Mary had just laughed at him and she and John worked on their homework, trying not to spill tea all over them whenever Mike grabbed them to try and get them to watch the film. At some point Mike had burst into tears (“Just tell her you love her you stupid git! No, nononoNO, FOR FUCKS SAKE NOAH!”) And stormed into the kitchen, coming back about fifteen minutes later with a Pot Noodle, mug of tea for each of them and a promise of better food once they’d pooled enough money. The domesticity was sickening.

“Right, guys, I’m off to bed. Absolutely bloody shattered,” Mary yawned, long after the last trails of sunset had faded from the sky, hauling herself from the sofa and elbowing a blubbering Mike “See you tomorrow.”

Mike just gave a loud sob in response and John waved vaguely, stumped on his essay and still pondering why the hell he’d need to know all this stuff about plants if he wanted to be a doctor.

Mike finally managed to force himself to stop crying after about half an hour, half-heartedly deciding to get a start on his own homework just as John moved onto his third essay. They scribbled away in silence for a while, other than the odd puzzled moan or violent pillow-throwing outburst, until John had finally had enough. Throwing his bag at the nearest wall with a dull thump he stood, stretching.

“Why the fuck did we do this to ourselves Mike? Why did we think this was a good idea?” he groaned.

Mike hummed, snapping shut his folder and also standing.

“No clue mate,” he muttered “Homesick too?”

John sniffed, rubbing his eyes in exasperation and desperately trying to keep calm. _Everything’s fine, it’s all fine. It’ll all work out ok…_

“Yeah.”

Mike went to respond but was cut off as Johns phone began buzzing frantically and it was no surprise to see Sherlock’s name flashing across the screen as he scrambled to answer it.

“Hey, what’s happened?”

“John, case, you’ve got Skype haven’t you?”

“Well, yeah but-“

“Great.”

And he hung up. Mike gave him a bewildered look as he frantically tried to open Skype on his ancient laptop before Sherlock could call. He barely noted the fact he was dragging a hand repeated through his hair to smooth it down or that he was checking to see if he looked decent in the grubby screen before the call rang through. Sherlock swam into view, frantically sifting through piles of paper at the kitchen island, the camera occasionally obstructed by an arm or file before he even noticed John had answered. His eyes seemed to light up as he spotted him and he gave a barely noticeable grin; John could feel himself doing the same.

“Hi Sherlock,” John stated, waving slightly at the camera “Who’s been murdered?”

“There’s another serial killer John!” Sherlock answered joyously, voice crackly and distorted by the old speakers but still clearly beaming, flinging his arms wide “Finally another serial killer! It’s Christmas!”

There was violent shuffling to Johns left as Mike flopped down next to him on the sofa, eyes widening as he saw who he was talking to. Sherlock also immediately stopped, dropping his smile and squinting into his camera before sighing deeply and sliding down into his chair. Mikes reaction was the opposite, a smile spreading across his face as he pulled himself closer to the camera.

“Sherlock! Hi! Do you remember me? It’s Mike, Mike Stamford!” he asked happily, ignoring Sherlock’s annoyed eye-rolling.

“Yes, hello Mike. Of course I remember you,” Sherlock drawled.

John glanced between them in confusion before Sherlock supplied an answer.

“We went to school together before I moved,” he huffed “We sat by each other in Maths.”

Mike seemed to be deaf to Sherlock’s hostile tone as he continued.

“How you been then mate? I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Sherlock remained silent, not blinking, breathing or moving a muscle, and John thought the screen had frozen until he noticed Sherlock’s slight breathing. He could almost hear his internal screaming. When the silence continued into an uncomfortable amount of seconds John cut in before Mike could get offended.

“So, serial killer. That’s why you called yeah?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly before grinning manically and holding up a bulky file.

“Yes, and they’re so beautifully clever. There’ve only been three deaths at the moment but all in the most peculiar fashion-“

“I’ll leave you guys to it then,” Mike spluttered “Nice… yeah, nice to see you again Sherlock!”

Then Mike drowsily made his way to their room with a warning to John about not staying up too late before he disappeared altogether. _Poor bugger, must be fucking terrified._

Sherlock continued enthusiastically, giving the circumstances of the deaths in excruciating detail and running over every theory that apparently came to mind, occasionally disappearing to scan files through to John or grab some tea. It was the usual way they did things- Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, with all the deductions and insults of police personnel and John occasionally offering a helpful idea and acting as a sort of sponge for Sherlock, taking in all the information he threw out. Even Mrs Hudson paid a visit in the form of an exasperated muttering about how it was indecent for them to be this enthusiastic about something so morbid as well as a check up on how John was doing. Only when John started to nod off did Sherlock slow down.

“So… how did college go?” he asked, words clunky as if he’d had to think hard before speaking.

John was too tired to be surprised at the thoughtfulness and just yawned back a reply of how boring it was. Sherlock nodded gently in apparent understanding and let the conversation peter out, instead resorting to re-reading the case and leaving John to the quiet solitude of his flat. John lay on the sofa, chin resting near the keyboard, unable to do much more than yawn occasionally as he felt himself falling asleep. Sherlock thankfully said nothing until John fell asleep on the keyboard for what could only have been a few seconds, but he could see Sherlock trying to cloak his irritation even with the pitiable video quality.

“I should probably go,” John sighed, trying to ignore the small signs of hurt on Sherlock’s face “Don’t want to fall asleep on you.”

“Again,” Sherlock scoffed half-heartedly.

John smirked at the weak attempt at humour.

“I’ll be back in London this weekend, we can meet up then yeah? And don’t forget to get your staples out tomorrow.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded enthusiastically, wishing him better luck on his next day of college before hanging up. John snapped the laptop closed, plunging the room into darkness and drowsily went to his room, checking the clock as he went. It was almost half two and he’d have to be getting ready in a little over three hours. John lazily chastised himself but knew he didn’t really mind: it had been nice to see Sherlock again after how long he’d been out of London. Even if had only been about a week since they’d last met.

-

“Mike-“

“How’d you meet?”

“Mike, no-“

“Was it at school? Or your café?”

“For fucks sake, Mike no-“

“You do look good together to be honest-“

“Mike. Stop.”

Mike took a long sip of his coffee after John interrupted him for what must have been the fiftieth time that morning, staring at him, waiting for him to continue. The second he’d walked into the kitchen Mike had started spewing questions to the amusement of Mary and John’s utter mortification. John sighed as he too took a sip of coffee, avoiding Mike’s interested gaze. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to it, it was just the fact Mike seemed so set on it after having only seen them talking through a Skype call for five minutes. Plus, after the sleepover, he’d had to have a long think about why he’d acted so awkwardly after seeing Sherlock in his clothes. He’d unsurprisingly come to no conclusion, still as confused as when he’d been confronted with the incident but he had decided on starting to nip these rumours. It would only start causing further confusion for both himself and anyone else, because _**we are not a couple**_. Or so he’d told himself over and over again. Rather unconvincingly.

“Despite what everyone seems to think, I’m not actually gay,” John finally deadpanned, causing Mike to raise an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to be gay to be attracted to someone of the same gender mate,” he informed matter-of-factly a few seconds later through a mouthful of cereal.

“Well- well yeah, I know, but we’re not a couple,” John replied, knowing he was probably going red “We’re really not.”

Mike smiled all the same, getting up and patting him on the shoulder.

“Then I’m glad he has a friend. It can’t be a good thing to go alone for so long.”

Mary smiled as he left the room, taking the seat next to John and giving him a nudge, waiting for him to finish his coffee before forcibly dragging him from the kitchen. Before she shoved him into his room, she flung his already packed bag onto the sofa and handed him a completed set of detailed biology notes which John hurriedly flipped through. They were immaculate and scarily detailed, hurriedly scratched out in messy handwriting. Glancing between the stack of papers and Mary in both confusion and awe, he stuttered a fractured thank you. She just grinned, beginning to pack her own bag.

“You need today to go better for you so I making sure nothing goes wrong,” she stated, giving him a rough push further towards his door “So get a move on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Isn't this weird, an update less than a month after the last one? Lovely to finally see Mary again... I just really, really, obviously love Mary... But yeah, I'm almost done with the next chapter too but it's proving really complicated to write and it might not be up for a while because I'm doing NaNaWriMo, but hopefully I'll get it done! Kinda short chapter, sorry, but I'm building up to something big so just hold out for slightly longer. Please comment and criticism, always looking to improve because I think the quality has gone downhill a bit so yeah. Enjoy! 
> 
> (PS: I KNEW I'd forgotten to include this, but here's the scene from The Birds Sherlock was getting annoyed at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GwH06C5fshc . Be warned, it's absolutely bloody infuriating)


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

The cold September air had spread across London, causing a sea of woolly hats and heavy coats to flood in; Sherlock couldn’t have been more relieved. Summer had finally blown over and he could get away with the big coat and scarf without as many stares. It was complete bliss. However, it was difficult to keep this in mind when he’d been standing on the Watson’s front step for around twenty minutes and could feel the cold slowly working its way through his clothing, chilling him to the bone. It was quite early but John had assured him Mrs Watson was going to be at home all day. Unfortunately though, he appeared to have been wrong as his persistent ringing of the doorbell had achieved nothing as of yet.

The serial killer he was supposed to have been investigating had practically disappeared- going from three murders in three days to doing absolutely nothing in the same amount of time. This meant they’d either run or were just clever enough to wait until the fuss died down so they could kill again. Sherlock really hoped it was the latter as he was beginning to get bored again and Mrs Hudson apparently didn’t appreciate the 4am violin playing or the regular kitchen fires that seemed to come with being bored.

Just as he was about to head home and try again tomorrow, already taking out his phone to send an angry flurry of texts John’s way, a battered car spluttered to a stop outside the house and Mrs Watson stumbled out, wrapped tightly in an alarmingly pink scarf and a scruffy cream jacket. She didn’t appear to have noticed Sherlock as she sniffed loudly and shook her head, opening the back doors and hauling out a large cardboard box. Sherlock knew exactly what this meant and warily made his way over.

“Mrs Watson?” he asked quietly, causing her to start violently before she recognised him.

“Oh, Sherlock dear, I’m sorry,” she sighed “Is this about the staples?”

Sherlock nodded lightly, taking in her slightly blotchy face and bloodshot eyes. This might not have been the best time to turn up.

“Shall I take that for you?” Sherlock offered, gesturing to the box, to which Mrs Watson smiled and gently handed it over.

It was filled to the brim with folders, certificates, mugs and numerous picture frames and Sherlock struggled not to drop anything as they made their way back up the to the house and into the chilly hallway. Mrs Watson excused herself upstairs while she went to get the first aid things, instructing him to put the box in the kitchen. He did so and stood awkwardly, glancing around the tiny kitchen, repeatedly knotting and unknotting his scarf. It was different today, much colder and less welcoming than it had been last time, but he couldn’t really put his finger on why. After a few minutes Mrs Watson shuffled past him to the table where she began to grab bottles and bandages from the kit in near silence, only disturbed by the occasion sniff. Sherlock struggled as he tried to grasp at any comforting words that didn’t sound insensitive, or however close he could get to being insensitive in the first place.

“I’m sorry about your job Mrs Watson,” he finally managed, much to her surprise as she glanced up.

She gave a tight smile before tapping the chair for him to sit down and continuing to sort through various bottles. Sherlock hesitated, unsure if he’d said something wrong or offended in any way, before he obliged.

“You can’t tell John,” she sniffed “He’d just stress and he’s got enough of that at the moment.”

Sherlock nodded and remained in silence as he felt the familiar sting of disinfectant.

“John said you did that,” she said warmly, painfully beginning to remove the staples “That you can just always tell what’s going on. It’s very clever really.”

Sherlock grinned despite the stinging in his shoulder and was surprised when she asked about his methods, to which he gave all the rehearsed, dulled responses until the conversation moved onto John. Sherlock found himself having to invent most of the replies- _of course we met in biology, and we just meet up for homework and tea, nothing else whatsoever_ \- as he felt that to tell the truth would be a horrible decision, but she didn’t seem to suspect a thing. She supplied to occasional odd story about John before Sherlock had met him, like the time he’d almost been kicked off the rugby team for breaking a teammate’s nose when they were bullying Harry or when Lestrade had had to help fish him from the pond in Hyde Park after he’d jumped out of the way of a cyclist. Sherlock laughed along, carefully storing the stories with the intent of either bringing them up later to embarrass John or just to remember because, _that’s what friends are supposed to do isn’t it_? Eventually the conversation dwindled to comfortable silence as Sherlock had the last of his staples removed and, thanking her, he prepared to leave. Mrs Watson however stopped him at the door.

“You live above the café John works at don’t you? On your own?” she asked, which Sherlock immediately confirmed.

She asked him to wait while she bustled back inside, coming back a few minutes later with a plastic bag filled with Tupperware, and handed it over, much to Sherlock’s utter confusion. Mrs Watson just smiled.

“Take care of yourself dear,” she said, awkwardly patting him on the shoulder “But make sure to bring the boxes back.”

With that, she closed to door and left Sherlock on the doorstep, clutching the bag and confused as he made his way back through the waking city.

-

Mrs Hudson had almost immediately taken the bag when he’d come through the door, face red from the cold and hair even more of a mess than usual due to the biting wind. She’d insisted he put the fire on and fussed about, placing the various boxes of food in the fridge and chattering away her appreciation that she wasn’t the only one who was there to look out for him anymore. Sherlock had curled up in his chair throughout this, still wondering just why he’d been given a mountain of food or what he’d done to deserve it, and mind racing as thoughts of the serial killer came creeping back.

Mrs Hudson suddenly plonked a steaming pot of tea on the table in front of him, snapping him back to the room from where his mind had wandered, and dragged the seat from his desk round to face him before she sat herself down.

“You really need to invest in another chair young man,” she cooed, pouring tea for both of them “The place looks quite empty with just yours.”

“I’m the only one here though,” Sherlock stated “Why would I possibly need another chair?”

Mrs Hudson gave a small smile as she lifted her mug, cupping it in her hands. Sherlock did the same, warming his hands on the boiling ceramic.

“You wouldn’t understand these things dear,” she tutted, shaking her head slightly for effect, refusing to continue as they sat in silence.

Sherlock again found himself retreating into his mind palace as the hot drink numbed his senses, and he continued to sort meticulously through all the information he had on this latest killer, but again came to nothing. Only when he felt the mug being gently tugged from his hands did he come back to the room, the lighting having largely changed and the pale midday sun now pouring through the windows, illuminating the flat in grey light. Mrs Hudson was refilling their mugs and talking away about something her husband did way-back-when and with the fire crackling away to their right and the musty smell of tea filling the flat, there was something pleasingly domestic about it all. Judging it was safe to stop paying any attention, Sherlock delved deeper into his mind palace and began scouring the crime scenes. He’d stored them in excruciating detail after trips to the real ones had proved useless and impractical.

He again found himself drawn to the victim’s bags. They’d all been completely untouched, not unlike the way a priceless artefact in some prestigious museum would be untouched. No fingerprints found anywhere on any of them, as if they’d been thoroughly polished again and again before being dipped in bleach for good measure. The families had even confirmed that yes, those were the victim’s bags and no, they weren’t new. So what the hell was going on unless the culprit was deliberately trying to draw attention to their possessions? While the clever ones really were the best they could be really bloody annoying. Taking the first victims bag in hand, he again obsessively viewed it, aimlessly picking through the various mundane items within, before realising it was pointless. He wasn’t going to find anything new without the real thing.

“Just pay closer attention will you? I’d have thought you would be able to get something like this without the yards help.”

Sherlock snapped back to the room at the unexpected voice coming from the chair opposite him. It took a few seconds for his eyes to fully adjust, a lot of time seemingly having passed as they were now only illuminated by the spitting embers in the fireplace. However, he wasn’t entirely sure it was just the lack of fire making him feel cold.

“And please don’t say ‘No, I don’t need help’ ok? It’s much less interesting,” Moriarty grinned, absentmindedly rapping his knuckles on the table between them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock hissed, springing to his feet and entering the kitchen, clumsily turning on a few lamps as he went “And where’s Mrs Hudson? She was just here.”

He only gave an enthusiastic shrug in response, getting up and moving to stand next to him. As he glanced about the kitchen he seemed to drink in the sight of the tottering piles of case files, the dirty beakers stacked precariously on the microwave and the glass tubes snaking around them from an abandoned experiment. He looks almost exactly the same as he had last time- immaculate suit and hair completely out of place in the flat. He somehow still managed to hold a sense of menace about him despite looking, now that Sherlock had already met him once before, like a child trying on a suit for the first time.

Despite this, it was incredibly difficult to find humorous as Sherlock took a shaky breath, expertly supressing his blind panic by disguising it as a disgruntled sniff and he began thumbing through the papers again for the eighty-third time. Unfortunately, Moriarty, either unaware or not caring that he was being pushed away, dragged a stool around to him, the legs screeching on the laminate floor, heightening the unease. It was soon pressed uncomfortably close to his legs, invading his space. Moriarty then plonked himself down, immediately beginning to joyously kick at the kitchen island and rested his elbows on the open file.

Sherlock stiffened as he stopped what he was reading, forcibly restraining himself from tugging it away and vacating the flat. He instead took a step back, eradicating these thoughts and composed himself.

“Move,” he spat, hoping for a genuine reaction over his faux innocent outlook.

Instead, he just cocked his head to the side, eyes wide.

“Can I not just look? I want to figure out what’s happening as well. For the overall good of the rest of us,” he stated before suddenly grimacing “And tea! You haven’t offered any! It is the least you can do, it really wouldn’t kill you to be polite.”

The final words rang around the flat as they were almost shouted, glossing over his earlier points as a Sherlock stood in shock. He was leaning closer from his stool, continuing to try and encroach on his space without physically lunging at him, eyes wide, manic, and knuckles white as he gripped the counter. The tense silence stretched into uncomfortable minutes, Sherlock unwilling to test the space between them, wary of the other teen just in case he suddenly tried to snap one of his limbs. Or maybe pour acid over the files. Or smash a window. Or just leave in a flurry of cursing. The possibilities really were endless. Instead he remained in stony silence until almost ten painful minutes had crawled by.

Finally he rolled his eyes, a casual gesture that did nothing to disperse his sudden murderous aura, and instead seemingly heightening it to a point where Sherlock was wary of the slightest movement.

“Fine. I’ll do it,” he murmured before continuing lightly whilst moving to begin mindlessly filling the kettle “This’ll pick us up! It’ll be a completely new blend. Funny how you can tell when someone different has made you tea isn’t it? I get so many people complimenting it. Should work here actually.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock hastily replied before he could stop himself, still on edge as he meandered back over to continue working.

Moriarty laughed an eerily gentle laugh in answer, yanking Sherlock’s mind further into complete turmoil as he tried to halt the endless stream of possible motives barrelling through it. None were making any sense and he could barely string together even a simple coherent thought. He instead remained frozen as the words he was trying to read seemed to blur before repeating themselves over and over, withholding any information he was trying to find.

“Look at the possessions. Probably something there right? If not it seems quite pointless for all the obsessive cleaning- you should examine them closer,” he stopped from where he was grabbing mugs from the cupboard, shrugging “Though maybe I’m completely wrong.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh, spinning on his stool to face him, indignation momentarily overpowering his panic at the blatant criticism of his methods.

“I know what I’m doing,” he scoffed “Don’t try to intervene when you’re making such obvious points. And stop babbling, it’s annoying.”

Moriarty again ignored his retort, opting instead to place a mug down heavily onto the counter directly in front of him, boiling water splashing over the rim and threatening to land on his bare forearms. He then sat unnervingly close for the second time, mug in hand and shoulder to shoulder, plumes of scalding steam rising to their faces. Sherlock, eyeing his own mug of tea with barely contained suspicion, blocked out the burning sensation of the steam as he attempted to retreat to his mind palace, to escape the oppressive figure to his left if for nothing else.

It seemed to work for what could only have been a few minutes before he was excruciatingly wrenched back to the kitchen by the sensation of hundreds of droplets of boiling water soaking through his shirt accompanied by the unmistakable shattering of ceramic. Sherlock immediately stood, scrambling towards the sink, taking in the shards of mug scattered across the floor and the growing puddle of tea threatening to seep into his shoes, he barely noted Moriarty’s stunted apology.

“That was an accident, I’ll just- I’ll try and dispose of all of the- of the pieces,” he stuttered, apparently also not taking in his words as Sherlock could clearly hear the crunching of the remaining pieces under foot “Mind yourself, someone could really damage themselves if they’re not really looking. You’re alright though? Were you careful not to burn yourself?”

Sherlock stopped trying to contort himself under the tap and glared at Moriarty. He was now standing amidst a mosaic of turquoise mug shards on his kitchen floor, not a droplet of tea appearing anywhere on his impeccable suit, wearing the most pathetically smug expression he’d ever had the misfortune to have directed his way. It vaguely echoed of the kind of look Sebastian or Anderson would have given after having cornered him, except it was so much more malicious. The sickening, unsettling nature he was burdened with suddenly seemed to be so much clearer as Moriarty raised a hand slightly, moving forward by a minute distance in mock concern. This wasn’t some common, violent bullying. Not the kind he was disgustingly familiar with. This was something new.

Suddenly becoming aware of the blistering sensation across his front, he scowled, rushing to the bathroom where he slammed the door closed. Locking it, he pressed an ear to the peeling paint, listening for footsteps. When none came he sighed, rubbing a shaking hand through his hair as he set about treating his burns.

-

After about an hour of pacing in circles trying to prolong his inevitable exit of the bathroom, he finally found himself bored enough to risk leaving. Quietly unlocking the door he steeled himself, stepping out into the hall.

The lights in the kitchen were off, the flat completely silent.

_That’s fine, he must have gone. He’s gone. Thank god-_

“So who’s this guy, Lestrade? Surprised someone like you needs friends of that kind to feel at all validated. Avoid such infuriatingly dull people: that would get you a party more interesting than the next. I bet in a month you’d get new people.”

Sherlock rushed into the living room, skidding through the door to the sight of Moriarty lying across the sofa, phone in hand, snide grin plastered on his face. It took Sherlock much longer than he realised it should have done to notice it was his phone.

“No,” he snarled, snatching the phone roughly from his grasp “No. Get out.”

Moriarty crossed his arms tightly over his chest, sneering at Sherlocks outburst. Sherlock took a step closer, suddenly realising he had the upper hand as he hastily tried to use his height to his advantage, crowding Moriarty’s space. No response.

“Get out.”

Nothing.

“Leave. I will push you straight down the stairs if I have to, but you are going to leave,” Sherlock yelled, roughly hauling Moriarty up by the shoulder in a sudden shock of sheer hysteria.

He was caught by complete surprise when Moriarty grabbed his wrist, yanking him painfully down, so close he could feel his warm breath on his face, could see every individual eyelash and the way his eyes suddenly seemed to darken as he pulled him fractionally closer.

“Good luck poppet,” he breathed, air shifting around the words as Sherlock struggled to draw in uneven breaths.

Without warning, he was snatched forward again as Moriarty stood, dragging him to the floor where he sat motionless, struggling to function at even the simplest level.

Moriarty didn’t glance back before he seemed to flee down the stairs, slamming the front door.

Sherlock remained stunned, unable to haul himself from the floor. His breathing became more and more irregular through every passing second, heart racing as he tried to understand what the hell he’d meant. _Good luck. Good luck with what?_ Painfully scrunching his eyes closed he desperately tried to claw his way through everything else that had happened that evening, every snide word or scathing glance, to try and find something of substance to work from. However, at every turn there was nothing but utter bewilderment sewn to a rising panic he couldn’t seem to cap, obscuring all rational thought. _Good luck poppet… poppet? Christ, why did he call me poppet? This has to be something, it has to mean more-_

Ripping himself back out, he glanced about the room, making sure he was completely alone before shakily scrolling through his phone, struggling to hold it in his shaking fingers. After what seemed an age in the crushing silence of his flat, he finally found the right number, dialling it without the usual hesitation that accompanied it. They picked up on the first ring.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock choked, shocked at the vulnerability he couldn’t quite disguise “Mycroft, I need your help.”

Mycroft remained quiet, clearly as shocked at the outburst as he was himself before assuring him he could continue.

“The cameras- the cameras outside the flat. I need you to check them. Someone just left, I need to know everything about them, I need everything, don’t- don’t leave anything out, even the smallest detail could be important-“

“Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled, cutting short his rambling “Calm down. I can’t do that for you, you know I can’t-“

“Please, Mycroft this is important, I need to know,” Sherlock muttered, continuing to unsuccessfully hold himself together “Please.”

The silence following his request was unnerving, as he was sure any silence would be for quite a while. When he eventually decided to answer, Sherlock was ashamed to admit to himself he was almost on the verge of becoming hysterical.

“Give me half an hour.”

After which he hung up, Sherlock immediately turning off his phone and dragging himself to his chair. There, he swept his violin up from where it had been resting behind the chair, shakily placing it under his chin as he began to create tuneless screeching to block out the unpleasant sound of Moriarty’s last words bouncing around inside his head. Hopefully Mycroft would get something interesting and he’d finally have a one-up.

Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update! Moriarty is so difficult to write, oh my god. Fun. But difficult. Anyways, please comment, I could really use some reviewing at the moment! See what I'm doing wrong/right. Enjoy!


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Back again! Enjoy!

It felt like years since he’d last laid eyes on the worn red awning of Speedys, but he would happily have gone a long while without the persistent shoving of the commuters trying to get around him. He’d barely been in London half an hour but had somehow already managed to fight his way through the teeming tube stations to get there as soon as he could, having left his flat whilst it was still dark, the inhabitants asleep. Of course, he’d told them the day before where he was going but, as they’d also been planning trips into London apparently, he had brushed off the offers of accompaniment and headed out early.

Stepping into the café, he barely heard the bell ring as he was greeted by a sudden excited stream of chatter as Mrs Hudson hurried around the corner to meet him as well as the familiar musty aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

“John dear! It’s been an age, how are you?” she trilled, leading him to the counter.

It was odd being on the customer’s side for once, but no less comfortable.

“I’m fine actually. College is starting to pick up. You?” he replied lightly, beginning to remove his coat.

“That’s good dear- no, no, keep your coat on, its cold! The heating went down yesterday and Sherlock and I are freezing half to death in the evenings. We’ve had to start stoking the real fire in his flat. It’s lovely really, gives me a chance to properly check up on him but-“

She trailed off as the door opened and a boy about his age with slicked back hair strolled in and took a seat by the window, Mrs Hudson bustling over to take an order. Seeing her so hectic as she began to prepare the order and the soft lights of the chilly café bouncing over the polished surfaces, seemingly causing the entire place to live and breathe alongside him, was refreshing when compared to the sober nature that had consumed him throughout the past days. Mrs Hudson pushed him a cup of tea as she busied herself with the other order, informing him he could take the mug up to the flat with him as long as she returned it.

“I don’t know who’s taking them, but I’m down to my last twelve,” she sniffed as John made to leave “And be careful with Sherlock. He’s more subdued than usual.”

John nodded, grasping the mug tightly as he went through the back door into the corridor below the flat. _Subdued? He seemed alright a few days ago. Maybe he’s just bored_. Quietly making his way up to the flat though he felt uneasy as he elbowed open the unlocked door and shuffled into the dark living room. Immediately he noticed there was something very obviously off about it, as if there were an unwelcome presence in the room that he couldn’t quite place his finger on, but which still set his nerves on edge. It probably just had something to do with the faint smell of smoke ghosting the flat, not that that was too unusual. _And Mrs Hudson did say they’d been lighting the fire…_ Glancing around to make sure he hadn’t just crashed somewhere unfortunate but seeing nothing he took a few steps into the kitchen.

“For God’s sake, I told you to leave! Why can’t you just listen? Leave me alone!”

John, carelessly dropping his mug on the counter, hurried down the corridor at Sherlock’s yelling and pushed open his bedroom door.

Almost immediately he was knocked back into the wall, pinned there by a surprisingly strong forearm across his chest.

“Leave me al-!” Sherlock yelled, voice ragged, before he stopped and sprung back “John!”

“Jesus Christ Sherlock!” John rasped, doubling over as he took deep breaths, trying to calm himself “Who the hell was that meant for?”

The light then buzzed into life, John still standing hunched by the wall into which he’d been shoved and trying to gather himself, overwhelmed by the unexpected attack.

“Mycroft of course. I obviously thought you were Mycroft…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Mycroft?! ME? But- but you’re you!”

“Are you alright?”

“Other than the heart attack you just gave me, I’m good,” John snorted, glancing up to look at his friend “Apparently the same can’t be said for you.”

Sherlock sniffed at the light attempt at humour, rubbing a hand through his matted hair. His appearance had changed a surprising amount considering they’d talked face-to-digital-face only a few days ago. He looked more jittery than normal, eyes constantly darting to the windows and door and shoulders very visibly tensed through his thin t-shirt, as if he’d flee if John was to so much as sneeze unexpectedly. Not only that, but he looked gaunt enough to easily be mistaken for a corpse. Sherlock, apparently clocking John’s thoughts, huffed and roughly dragged him back into the kitchen.

Instead of providing any explanation he took a sip of the tea John had precariously abandoned and sank into his chair, folding his legs up underneath him. The chill Mrs Hudson had mentioned very suddenly became evident and John tugged his coat tighter as Sherlock seemed to have a similar idea and shrugged on a dressing gown discarded on the floor near him.

“So what was that about-“John began, but was hastily interrupted.

“How’s college?” Sherlock asked, ignoring his question.

“You actually want to know?”

Sherlock nodded, clutching tightly onto the mug and taking another long sip. _‘Subdued’ my arse, he’s fine. Usual odd self._

“Well it’s alright, yeah. Nothing interesting to talk about,” John muttered, keen to change the subject to anything other than himself as he took a seat on the sofa “How’s the serial killer thing going?”

“That’s good. And how are Mike and Mary?”

“Why-“

_Ok, he’s bypassing murder. Maybe he’s not fine._

“How are they?” Sherlock persisted, reaching into a pocket and taking out a box he couldn’t quite make out through the dim lighting, but which looked to be blank.

“They’re good. But the serial killer-“

“I’m happy to hear it,” he stated, getting up and moving to the kitchen.

John remained where he was, Sherlock’s unexpectedly cold questioning stinging like a slap to the face. There was something very clearly off with the entire situation, right down to him not recognising something as small as John’s footsteps…

“So what of your family? Have you visited them yet?” Sherlock asked, still in the kitchen, voice distorted as he seemed to be opening all of the draws and cupboards in quick succession.

Having enough, John rose and shuffled into the kitchen as Sherlock produced a box of matches from the kettle with a triumphant grin.

“Sherlock, are you ok?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he poured some of the contents of the blank box onto the counter and John felt his voice catch. Laid carefully on the counter was, quite unmistakably, a small mound of tobacco. He immediately swiped the box from Sherlock’s hands, to Sherlock’s complete bewilderment, and grabbed hold of his wrist, forcefully dragging him round to face him. Sherlock took an alarmingly long few seconds to even realise what was going on, during which time John had managed to further tighten his grip on him and prevent him from pulling away.

“John, what the hell are you doing?” Sherlock spat, throwing himself backwards to little effect “Let go!”

“Are you smoking? Is that why you’re acting off?” John asked, fighting to keep his voice level.

Sherlock grimaced, realising he was getting nowhere with trying to get away and instead unsuccessfully lunged for the box of tobacco with his free hand.

“I swear to God, if you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on I’ll just bin this!” John exclaimed, beginning to lose his balance as Sherlock desperately tried to reclaim the box.

“It’s for a case!” Sherlock snapped, this time trying to force John to loosen his grip, causing them both the sway heavily on the spot as they both tried to remain standing.

“What kind of case would need you doing this?” John asked incredulously.

“This one, now give it back!”

“You’ll have to do better than that mate,” John stated coldly “Tell me exactly why you need this.”

Sherlock sighed, dropping his arm and somehow managing to perfect a look that wouldn’t look out of place on Mycroft. He then lifted his arm, Johns hand still attached.

“Well if you’d let go of me I’d really love to elaborate.”

John remained stoic, leaning slightly further back to make sure Sherlock still wasn’t within grabbing distance of the box. Sherlock ignored this and tugged him back, moving his arm a little closer to John’s face for emphasis and he had to fight not to smile at the ridiculousness of the gesture before relinquishing his grip.

He rubbed at the mark John had left on his wrist, but John knew what was coming as he took just over a second too long, trying to throw him off. The inevitable lunge at the box was therefore immediately stopped as John swung an arm around his friend’s waist and caused him to fall hopelessly onto the kitchen tiles with a thump. Sherlock sat hopelessly on the floor, glaring up at him until he finally gave up.

“Fine," he sighed as John pocketed the box and offered him a hand.

He immediately dug around underneath the remaining tobacco on the counter, carefully pushing it to the side, and pulled out a crumpled stack of papers which he handed over.

“It’s a list of every dealer the victims could have gotten their tobacco from around the areas they frequented. There was no evidence of them ever going to an actual shop to buy it- no receipts, CCTV, or listed on their cards- so that’s what they must have done. I tested the stuff they had left on them when they died and it all contained a compound that would have practically melted their oesophagus which, unfortunately, is what happened. They originally thought- as did you and I- that someone had just forcefully poured something corrosive down their throats, but we were wrong. They willingly yet unknowingly caused their own deaths. It’s a rare compound so it was clearly there for malicious intent. If we find the dealer we find the murderer,” he stated, seeming less enthusiastic with every word.

It seemed like a sound explanation and John was about to hand the box back and offer some help when he realised there was something pretty key missing.

“There’s no apparatus out but you were clearly planning on doing something with this,” he shook the box which Sherlock eyed possessively “So how are you actually testing to see which is the right tobacco?”

Sherlock grimaced.

“You’re getting too good at this. I’m supposed to be the smart one.”

“So?” John asked again, not letting the backhanded flattery get to him.

“I’m smoking it. There’s a lot of dealers. It’s quicker.”

John threw the box at him with little force and Sherlock immediately rushed to catch it.

“God, Sherlock,” John sighed, unable muster even the slightest bit of anger “Do you know how reckless that is?”

“I’ve seen the autopsy photos. Of course I do,” he scoffed.

John pushed down the sickening feeling he got from the fact that Sherlock was willingly risking a bloody melted oesophagus for a measly case.

“How far through are you?” he muttered.

“I’ve only got four left to test before I’m proved wrong,” Sherlock grinned weakly.

“Then will you please just test them normally? It’ll only take you, what, a day? And then you won’t die?” John reasoned, trying to keep the pleading note from his voice.

Sherlock pondered it for around a second before muttering something about how John was completely disrupting the system he’d set up and reaching for the box of test tubes and dyes on the microwave. John didn’t want to offer help, unable to get his head around the fact that his friend had been so carelessly toying with death for the past couple of days without him knowing. Why he’d suddenly thought to gone back and look at the possessions again after they’d combed through them repeatedly already was beyond him and, although he was relieved they’d found the strangely impractical murder weapon, he wasn’t exactly as overjoyed as usual when they stumbled on such a huge breakthrough.

“John?” Sherlock asked suddenly and John glanced to where he was standing, a pair of grubby lab-goggles resting on his head “Have I done something wrong?”

Now it was John’s turn to ignore the questions as he shrugged, not really knowing how to answer without blatantly calling him an idiot. Sherlock continued to stare at him, wide-eyed and apparently genuinely confused as to what could possibly be wrong. He clearly hadn’t tacked on to the fact that entire situation was just mad and a bit too much to be having to deal with first thing on a Saturday morning. An alarm on his phone broke their silence, causing Sherlock to visibly wince and stumble backwards. John didn’t pay attention as he checked the time.

“Shit,” he groaned “I told my mum I’d be home by now. Ill drop back in later if I have time, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded in response, still looking confused, before he pulled on his goggles and started faffing around with the apparatus now spread on the surface, providing John with an easy escape.

-

An hour later he realised nothing was going to go right today. The second he opened his front door he knew there was no point in being there. The house was cold, the smell of alcohol stinging the air, and nobody shouted any greeting. He wasn’t even disappointed when he found both Harry and his mum asleep in the front room, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table between them. There was only one reason his mum would have started drinking again but it only dealt him a dull blow. He realised there was little point in staying if he’d only be forced to cater to two woozy family members so left as quietly as he’d entered and headed back towards the train station and his flat beyond it.

-

He would have congratulated himself on the restraint he would have shown had he actually done so when he got back. It was only around 3 o’clock, Mary and Mike still in London, and there was no better way he could think of to spend the rest of his grey afternoon than to settle down and get some work done with what little drink they had between them. It happened to be half a bottle of whiskey Mary had nicked from the drinks cabinet on her last visit home, but it would have to do. That seemed to be the only solution to brighten his painfully underwhelming day, despite however much it disgusted him. As he unscrewed the cap and took a swig of the burning liquid he finally admitted that there was no way in hell he could escape what his father had so scathingly referred to as their family’s ‘inescapable legacy of alcoholism’. The house party a while back had been a one off- accidental and he'd regretted it. But this seemed to be a trend running through the family and nobody was surprised when Harry started, even at her age, but they were all disappointed. Every member of the family he could think of had struggled with it at some point, he’d just been so determined up until then that he wouldn’t follow suite.

“I can set a fucking record and start the youngest,” he grimaced, eyeing the bottle before taking another drink.

-

Loud laughter pulled him back to the room hours later and he immediately swiped at the bottle on the table in an attempt to hide it. He misjudged its position and instead knocked it to the floor where someone stooped to catch it before it shattered.

“Jesus John, how much did you drink?” Mike asked in concern, placing the bottle back down, and leaving to go to the kitchen.

He felt the sofa dip as Mary sat down next to him.

“Shit day?”

“Yep.”

Mary sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder and he  turned slightly to look at her, surprised to find he wasn’t yet pissed enough for her to blur.

_Great, I’ve already built up a tolerance._

“Doesn’t mean you get to drown yourself in whiskey. That shit was expensive.”

“You stole it.”

“True,” she grinned, shoving him playfully before reaching for the bottle herself.

Mike re-entered as she took a drink and rolled his eyes at them both, placing a few takeaway bags and plates on the table.

“You two are unbelievable. It isn’t even seven,” he muttered, helping himself to a plate “And I know it’s the weekend and all but maybe show some restraint?”

He stared at them for a few seconds before Mary, not breaking eye contact, produced another bottle of the same from her bag and set it heavily on the table with a smirk. Mike eyed it with distain as John snorted a laugh and reached for some food, not missing the thumbs up she gave him.

-

As it turned out, John realised he’d definitely not built up any sort of tolerance as he sat giggling through his hands later that evening as something Mary had said. Mike had left them too it an hour or so ago and, unsurprisingly, they’d both very quickly journeyed through being tipsy into being just blind drunk. They hadn’t bothered to turn any lights on and were only illuminated by the dull light from under Mike’s bedroom door but neither of them particularly seemed to mind. They’d attempted to watch a film earlier but couldn’t pay any proper attention so had resolved to sitting toe-to-toe on the sofa, sharing stories of their times in school. Mary had a lot more to say than he thought she would have done, as he’d always thought she was a tad too nice to be doing anything really interesting, but he’d been proved so very wrong as she’d recalled one of the many times she’d taken the school rounders bats to use as kindling on bonfires.

“It’s a miracle I never got expelled,” she laughed “I swear someone must have seen me chucking those things over the fences at some point. Hardly in-inconspicuous.”

John continued trying to stifle his giggling to no avail.

“Never done anything like that before,” he grinned “I stole a toaster for Sherlock once but that’s not really that same.”

Mary’s laughter sobered slightly at the mention of Sherlock and she leaned forward, John mirroring her actions as she whispered.

“Is there something there?”

“What?” John asked, confused.

“Between you and him? Are you, like…”

She trailed off, nudging his foot with hers as John took a few seconds to understand what she was getting at before he laughed, somewhat more nervously than before. There wasn't and, as long as he kept telling himself that there was no way there was anything, it'd stay that way.

“No, no, nothing going on, why does everybody-”

Mary had stopped laughing completely now and was leaning even closer. He could almost feel her breath on his face.

“So you’re single?”

“Yeah, why?”

Even in the dim light John saw her roll her eyes before she leaned forward the rest of the way and pressed a light kiss to his lips. She had already pulled away before he’d fully realised what was going on and the following silence was deafening as they both held their breath, waiting for the other’s reaction.

He didn’t know what to say, mind still fuzzy with drink, so just went for the most obvious option and leaned in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drinking age in the UK is 16 if you're on your own property in case anyone didn't know, so John is totally in the right. There was that whole thing Moffat was going on about a while back on how there's subtext of him drinking, so here we go. Sorry, I was gone for so long, I've had a load of projects & stuff so I hadn't really had time to write, but I'm good now! And the special!!! My god, it was bloody great.  
> Feel free to comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave comments, say whatever you want. Criticism is welcome :) If anyone has any suggestions as to what they would like to see in this, feel free to say in the comments. THANKS FOR READING


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